


Tales of a broken man

by CallMeV



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath, Amputation, Aramis hates forests, Aramis is First Minister, Aramis!Hurt, Aramis!poisoned, Aramis!whump, Assassin Aramis, Basically just whumping Aramis, Caring Porthos, Crippled Aramis, Dehydration, Hallucinations, Humilitated, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Prisoner of War, Savoy, Sunburns, Torture, War Stories, War Veteran, Waterboarding, caring Athos, caring d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan is Captain, don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-11-19 10:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeV/pseuds/CallMeV
Summary: Chapter 17: Bad dreamsTaking a prisoner was - unfortunately for Aramis and his brothers - a common tactic in times of war.After Aramis had come into the hands of the spanish, the others have to save him and deal with the aftermath of his imprisonment...Stand alone one-shots.I just wanted to whump Aramis, don't judge me.The chapters are seperated from each other, sometimes a little bit AU.Warnings different from chapter to chapter.





	1. Amputation (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mention of major injuries and violence.  
> Mention of amputation.

The flicker of the flames, both in the fireplace and on several candles, were the only sources of light in the room. The crackling of the fire and the sound of paper being turned, the only sounds. He felt at peace as he read the leather bound book, his fingers brushed over the cover, enjoying the feeling of the expensive material beneath them.  
It was a hard, loud knock that disturbed the peace.  
“Enter.” He closed the book with a sigh and placed it onto the large desk in front of him, as the door swung open and revealed the captain of the Musketeers.  
“Minister d’Herblay.” D’Artagnan bowed his head before he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.  
Aramis raised his brow and smiled, so that the wrinkles around his eyes showed. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t have to be so formal when we’re alone, d’Artagnan?”

The Captain shrugged, but couldn’t hold back a gin himself - it faded fast as he sat down in front of the desk. “It’s getting worse, Aramis.”  
The Minister pushed his hair back, sighing. He had expected it, but still he had hoped it would come differently. “What do you suggest we should, Captain?”  
“Isn’t there anything left in the treasury? To feed the starving…”  
Aramis avoided his gaze. Instead he watched the candle in front of him slowly burning out.  
“There’s nothing left, I assure you that. The plague costed so much… And even if we could buy some bread and get some clean water, it wouldn’t be a solution, would it? If they don’t die today, then they’ll starve in a few weeks. We need a permanent solution and have to invest our resources carefully.”  
“There will be a revolt.” Aramis closed his eyes for a short moment. He had expected that, too.  
“I’m at a loss, d’Artagnan.” The First Minister revealed, as he once again pushed his hair back – something he had always done when he s nervous or devasted. D’Artagnan sighed and stood up.  
“We should get the Queen, the Dauphin and you to safety, Minister.”

“I won’t run away! I never ran from a fight and I won’t do it now.” Aramis put his hands onto the table and pushed himself upright. One hand was always supporting his weight as he limped around the desk to face d’Artagnan. “But you’re correct. The majesties should be somewhere else. We can’t risk them getting caught in the revolt.”

“You’re the First Minister, we can’t risk getting you killed, neither!” D’Artagnan shook his head in disbelief at his friends stubbornness. On the other hand – when had Aramis ever not been stubborn?

“I’ll stay.”

“And do what? Fight?” D’Artagnan huffed as he pointed at the wooden leg. The words hurt, as they hit a weak spot. But Aramis was determined to not show is as he straightened his shoulders. “I don’t need a leg to shoot.”  
The Captain shook his head and raised his hands in defeat. There was no way he would win this discussion and even if he had the better arguments: In front of him still stood the First Minister and his decision was the one that counted. If Aramis wanted to stay, there was nothing d’Artagnan could do but to try to protect him.  
\-------------------------------------  
“Follow me, Minister!” D’Artagnan shouted over the screams.  
The desperate and slowly dying people of Paris had stormed into the Louvre. With axes, knifes and torches the hundreds of men and women were just as dangerous as a well armed army. People who had nothing to lose, didn’t hold back from anything.  
D’Artagnan was glad that they had managed to get the Queen and the Dauphin out of the palace just yesterday, unharmed and undetected. They were now safe somewhere in the countryside. 

The Parisians didn’t know that as they searched the Louvre for the majesties.  
Aramis did his best to keep up with the younger man and slapped away the arm that was offered him for assistance by another musketeer. “I’m fine.” He hissed and increased his speed once more. The burning in his leg had long ago spread from his knee – where the limb had been amputated – to his thigh and hip.  
They were now under the main hall of the Louvre, hid in some secret tunnels, which the Parisians wouldn’t find – they hoped.  
“We will stay here. They will leave once they notice that no one’s around anymore.” D’Artagnan assured and sat down on the cold floor.  
Aramis followed him down and hissed as the pain made it self known one more.  
“Let me see.” D’Artagnan pointed at the mans leg, but Aramis shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say you are. Let me see if it’s something serious, please.” Aramis rolled his eyes but nod and allowed d’Artagnan to lift his breeches enough to reveal the wooden prothesis as well as the stumb, which once has been his leg. Aramis looked away. After all these years he still couldn’t look at it. It disgusted him. To see what a cripple he had become. He was ashamed of it – even though he would never admit it. It was a risk every soldier took – to lose their lives or get severely wounded in a battle. And Aramis had never had a problem to take this risk - because he had always thought he would be lucky. And he had luck. Many years and many times. But not six years ago during his last battle.  
A blade had cut through muscles and nerves, until the bone was seen. He had lost a lot of blood before a medic had found him on the field, which had been a battlefield minutes before.  
He could still remember the agony he was in as his bone was broken and the last muscles cut – the fire to cauterize the wound. He wished h had passed out then, but he didn’t. He screamed and cried, as he was conscious enough to realize what had happened. He still laid beside his limb and begged that it would be sewed back on him. He knew it wouldn’t be of use anymore, but in this desperate moment he couldn’t think clearly.  
“It’s inflamed.” D’Artagnan announced after he had taken the wooden leg from the – now red and hot – stumb. “You will have to keep this thing off for a while.”

Aramis didn’t answer. He knew his friend was right, but without the pegleg he wasn’t able to walk. He would have to hop around like a cripple. He screwed his eyes shut at the image.  
“Sometimes I wish I would have died then, on the battlefield.” He whispered, cautious that the other two musketeers didn’t hear him.  
“I’m glad you didn’t. Who knows who would have become First Minister instead.”  
“Maybe someone who would be capable of ruling France without poverty, sickness, war and a revolt.” He leaned his head against the wall, exhausted and defeated. “I could have died the way every soldier wishes to die. Instead I survived to live as a cripple and a terrible, terrible politician.”

“You’re not a terrible politician. No man can stop the plague. It’s not your fault.” Even if his friend words were true, he still was a cripple, Aramis thought.  
“Still, I’m hiding like a guilty coward.”

“France needs it’s first Minister alive.” 

“France obviously doesn’t want it’s current First Minister.” Aramis stated and he was right. But was the folk ever satisfied with their politicians? Was there even a way to make everything right? D’Artagnan doubted it.


	2. Amputation (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So as there were some requests to go on with the plot from the previous story or give some of the background story… here’s the story how Aramis lost his leg. (Thank you for all the lovely reviews by the way)
> 
> Warning: Graphic description of violence.

There were men surrounding him, attacking him from every side. There laid men on the ground, lifeless, wounded, screaming. There fought men, fighting for their lives and the ones they loved. There, on these muddy fields, wet from the rain that poured down on them, was one of the biggest battles in this war. Who won, would own a quite big and strategically valuable area – it’s possession could end this war.  
Aramis felt his feet slipping every now and then on the wet ground beneath him, as he twisted around, pointing his dagger at the enemies that came ever closer. He had shot his muskets long ago, there was no time to reload. He had lost track of his brothers in the chaos of the battle. He wasn’t used to fight alone, just as they weren’t. Usually, he didn’t need to turn and twist around, didn’t need to look what was behind him, because behind him had always been Porthos. But this was not their usual business, this was war. He counted four men by now, just as bloody and dirty as he, just as desperate to save their loved ones, just as human as he was. But they were born on the wrong side of the border – quite unfortunate for them, Aramis smirked to himself. He didn’t enjoy the killing, as he knew that these were just soldiers following their orders, just as he. But he enjoyed living, surviving, the rush of the adrenaline. He enjoyed the challenges he had to face in each battle anew and even liked the arch in his bones and muscles after a long day.  
Soldiering made him feel alive.  
He analysed his opponents shortly. One tall and muscular, quite clumsy with his sword – he remembered him of Porthos somehow (not that his friend was clumsy at all). Another one just as tall, almost gawky. The third man grinned at him, which caused a scar on his cheek to stand out even more, making the grin look distorted. The fourth one was small, fast with his feet as he ran towards Aramis, sword raised high.  
But Aramis was faster, as he lifted his rapier and parried the blow. One swift turn of his wrists and his opponent’s weapon flew through the air. He ended the man’s life with a blade through his chest, fast and efficient.  
The Musketeer had barely enough time to draw his sword out of the flesh, before the tall and the gawky one attacked him from both sides. He parried one stroke, that was aimed for his ribs, with his main gauche and kicked the attacker on his right side into the stomach.  
The Porthos-like one didn’t give up, chopping and beating at Aramis as if he were a piece of meat. He felt each blow that he parried burn in his arms with the force and it took all his attention to not let a stroke through his guard.  
Unfortunately, there was no way he could have watched his back now. The scarred one took the opportunity. It were only mere seconds in which Aramis was too distracted with the muscular man, that gave the scarred Spaniard time to attack from behind. It happened as fast as it was over.  
The blade crashed against his leg, causing him to bulge. The sharp edges cut through flesh, muscles, veins, and only stopped as they met bone. Aramis screamed in agony, as a white hot pain shot through his whole body. Everything around him got quite burry since then. He barely noticed how he fell face forwards into the mud, only felt the agonizing pain as the blade was drawn out of his limb again. After that, there was pain, screams and darkness.  
He was still alive, minutes later, which was a good sign, he thought in a second of clarity. His opponents must have been killed by some other French soldier, he guessed. He couldn’t think more about it as with consciousness the pain returned.  
He had been injured more than once in his lifetime as a soldier. Bullet wounds, cuts and broken bones – he should be used to it by now, but somehow the pain was always just as bad as before. He had learned to suppress it, nevertheless. Aramis had fought with a knife stuck between his ribs or a bullet in his arm. He had ran miles with a broken ankle and fist fought with a dislocated shoulder.  
This was what worried him now. He didn’t seem to be able to stand up again, he couldn’t even turn his head or yell for help. Everything just seemed to much as his blood slowly swept into the muddy ground and as there was not enough strength left to turn onto his side, he knew. He knew he would die on the battlefield. He laughed bitterly, it was what he had always wanted. The death of a hero. But somehow, it didn’t feel that heroic now. But it wasn’t the death that made his heart clench. It was the knowing that he would never see them again. His brothers, Anne, Constance or his son – they would have to live on without him. He wished he could see them one last time.  
He wanted to reach for his crucifix, gathered all his strength to lift his hand enough, but his wrist was caught midair. The edges of his vision were blurry and he needed much more seconds that he should have to register what happened. There was a face in front of his now, the lips moved, the eyes pleaded. He searched in his foggy mind for a name, but couldn’t find one. He had hoped that it would have been one of his brothers, but it wasn’t.

“Do you hear me, son?” A hand was placed on his shoulder and Aramis managed a nod, as the sounds finally registered in his mind as a voice. There were more movements around him, but he couldn’t make out what or who it was.  
“My leg.” He suddenly remembered the source of his pain, after the agony had spread through his whole body. There was something in the man’s eyes above him – smoothing knowing, something sad.  
“I’m Pierre, one of your field medics. Can you tell me your name?”

Aramis licked his lips, before he muttered his name. His head started to grow heavy again. 

“Stay with us, son. We will get you to the infirmary soon.” Suddenly the comforting hand on his shoulder was gone and Aramis’ eyes snapped open – he hadn’t even noticed that he had closed them. The medic was still with him, kneeling beside him and talking with another man, who stood out of Aramis’s line of view.  
“I see you’re a religious man, Aramis. I never went to church much, but I always enjoyed the stories of the bible. Can you tell me one, son? I would love to listen to one now.”

Aramis knew that it was a strange question to ask in such a situation, but in all his pain and his muddled mind he couldn’t find the strength to care about it. He obeyed Pierre’s request and started to tell him from Jonah and the whale. His voice was rough and barely audible, but Pierre didn’t interrupt him as concentrated completely on telling the story.  
As a field medic himself, Aramis could have known that this was just a strategy from Pierre to distract him from something. But then the wounded man didn’t notice until there were suddenly several hands on him, holding him down. He stopped in his storytelling as panic rose. “Let me go.” He pleaded and twisted into the grips. He didn’t understand what was happening. Who where all these men? What did they want?  
“It’s okay. You’re save, Aramis. Just stay as calm as possible right?” He recognized Pierre’s comforting voice and stopped his trashing. He had the feeling he could trust this man.  
However, he wasn’t calm for long. A blade – no a saw – came into his field of vision and panic rose again. “What are you doing? What’s happening?” He asked, confused, scared. 

The saw disappeared again, the hands pressed down harder.  
And then, pain. A screeching sound. White, hot pain. Voices. Agony, that took over his whole body anew. Hands holding him in place. Helplessness, fear and panic, which he had never felt before in this intensity. He screamed, but he didn’t hear his own voice over the rushing of blood in his ear. And this terrible, terrible screeching noise.  
Through his trashing, he managed to lift his head enough to get a glimpse of the situation for a short moment. Bile rose in his throat and before he could have stopped it, he vomited.  
“No, stop. Not – please.” He cried. He cried not because of the pain, but because he knew what they were doing. They took his leg from him. Sobs wracked his body, the pain was almost forgotten as everything got blurry and desperate pleas left his lips. “No: Please not.” 

One last time he tried to fight, but there were so many hands and he felt so weak. “No.” He cried again, before he gave up utterly exhausted. The screeching noise had stopped. Someone talked to him, but he didn’t listen as he turned his face to the side – away from the face above him.  
It was a mistake. Now, right in front of his eyes, only an armlength away, laid it. His leg. Too far away to be still be a part of his body, but still it was his. He recognized the boot. He screamed and reached for it. Desperation and denial drove him to try to get the leg, to somehow put it back in it’s right place.

More sobs wracked his body as he didn’t reach the limb.  
He didn’t object as he was put on a stretcher, but his eyes never left the leg, that was left behind in the mud as he was carried away. After what felt like hours, he closed his eyes to stop the tears that streamed freely, but it was of no use. Sobs still wracked his body as he was put on a bed in the infirmary tent. 

“Rest, son. You will need your strength.” Pierre held a bottle to his lips and Aramis drank obediently. He didn’t care anymore what they did to him now. Everything was lost now, nevertheless.


	3. Summer heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really don’t know where this idea came from. Maybe I’m dreaming a little too much of summer… 
> 
> NO WARNINGS for this chapter. Just some whump and hurt Aramis.

He felt the sun burning on his reddened skin. There was no sweat left to cool him down, his body was now completely helpless against the heat and the cruel light that blinded him from above. His head felt way too heavy as it hung low onto his chest. He hadn’t had the strength left to lift it up again. Under his black hair, his scalp was just as red as his arms, causing a throbbing headache to set in. He laughed bitterly, as he remembered the words of the criminals that had attacked him.

“We would never dare to harm a musketeer.”

And some how they stayed true to their words while lying. Besides a few hits and kicks in their fight, he hadn’t sustained any more injuries. Instead of killing him off, after he was defeated by the six men, they decided to be gracious and let him live. They had took what they wanted, his beautiful ornamented weapons and the few coins he had with him, before securing him to a tree. Unfortunately for him, it was a dead tree, without any leaves to shelter him from the sun. One summerly hot day and one warm night had already passed and he felt as if his throat would rip because of the dryness. He tried to wet his split lip, but there was nothing left to wet it with. He groaned - exhausted, hungry and thirsty, he knew that his body would not hold out any longer. Beside all of this, he smelled his own body by now. Sweat and other fluids, that had left his body many hours ago for the last time, made him feel gross. Aramis knew, that sometime soon his brothers would notice his absence and search for him. He wasn’t that far away from the main road and could easily be detected if someone searched for him. But it could take some more hours before his brothers would even begin to worry and even more for them to find him. 

Till then it could be too late.  
He had heard that humans could last almost two weeks without food, but only three without water. Two days were almost up, and additionally he had lost more water to the heat than under normal circumstances. He still hoped that some traveller would pass by and help him, but this road was mainly used for messengers who travelled from Paris to Monthery, like he did. And there weren’t many messengers who went to Monthery. For the hundredth time he struggled against the rope, but it did nothing but causing his raw wrists to start bleeding again. He cursed, before apologizing to god right after it. Slowly, his eyelids fell down, closing the burning light from his eyes. It felt satisfying to not be blinded by the sun for a few minutes, but as he felt his body relax Aramis forced his open again. He didn’t dare to fall asleep. One reason was that he didn’t want to miss a messenger passing by, but the main reason was, that he wasn’t sure if he would wake again. By now, the sun was slowly settling, turning the sky in a pleasant shade of orange. Still, the heat and the sun remained. At first, Aramis had been glad that the raiders had taken his leathers from him too, leaving him in only his breeches. He knew how hot it could get under leather. But as he now looked at his upper body and the burning shaded of red he hissed. Should he survive this, this would hurt for quite a while. He didn’t notice as he drifted off, his eyes falling close as it got darker with the time. He was way too exhausted to care.

He started to dream of a well, full of cold water.

_A girl laughed, as it ran towards the well in the morning sun. Her white dress dragged along the earth, but she didn’t care, she never did. She turned her head and smiled at him warmly, waving. He, a young boy, followed her, laughed like a carefree boy. She pulled the bucket out of the well, it was only half full but it was enough for both them. After feeding the horses and goats, and mucking out the stables, they had been thirsty. The cold water felt heavily and she drank first, before handing the bucket to the boy, who took a sip before emptying the bucket over the girl. “RENÈ!” She screeched, before her warm eyes started to shine bright and with them, her whole face lightened up and her beaming laugh was heard through the whole village. “You will pay for it!” She warned, as she shook out her wet hair and looked down her body, the white silk clinging to her body. René laughed before he ran away. “First you have to catch me, Isabelle!”_

He awoke with a gasp. It needed a few moments for him to catch up with reality again and disillusionment laid heavily on his chest. It had been a dream and Isabelle was long gone, just as the water. He was still on this damned field, alone and thirsty. His lips were pulled into a thin, sad smile as he looked up into the star covered sky. “Maybe we will see us again sooner than thought, Isabelle.”

….

The sun stood high as they finally found him. Half of the last day, through the night and half of this day they needed to find him. They had searched everywhere in Paris and outside, along the route he was supposed to take and on others. D’Artagnan was the first who had seen the body against the tree. They would have almost missed him, he was so deathly still.

“Aramis?!” D’Artagnan screamed as he spurred his horse forward, over the field and towards their friend. Porthos and Athos were right on his heels, jumping from the beasts before they came to a full stop.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted again, as their brother remained unconscious. Athos, who seemed to be the calmest of all of them, put his fingers to the neck of their brother – praying until he felt the pulse, light but steady.

“He’s alive.” The lieutenant announced before cutting the ropes that had bound Aramis’ arms around the tree.

“Doesn’t look as if he has any serious injuries.” Athos slapped the marksman’s cheek slightly, hissing as he felt the heat radiating from him, only now noticing the dark red sunburn that spread across his friends whole body.

“He’s probably dehydrated. Give me some of the water, d’Artagnan.” The Gascon full fills the request and hands over a skin of water. Athos gets some of the water into Aramis, but most of it drips down his chin.

“Let’s get him somewhere cool.” Porthos suggested, as Aramis still didn’t show any sign of waking up.


	4. Protecting her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ambush seperates the Queen and Aramis from the regiment and the King. Injured, Aramis has to get her to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Minor mention of injuries and violence. Nothing graphic though. 
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely reviews, I'm looking forward for more!
> 
> Feel free to comment wishes or story ideas, if you have some. I won't promise anything, but maybe I will write it ;)

It should never have happened, but it happened anyway.

He wasn’t sure how or when or why, the only thing he knew was that he was alone with her now.  
Under different circumstances he would have been glad to be in a situation like this, with her in a forest, no one near. No one who would have seen them kiss, who would have heard their whispers or could have suspected something.  
But now he only wished his brothers and the King wouldn’t have been separated from them. 

His memories were blurry since his horse was shot and fell, with him still on it’s back. He had been too engaged into the fight to jump of before the fall, so the beast took him down with it. He was sure that he had been unconscious for some moments, because the next thing he knew was that the King was pulled out of his carriage. When had the bandits reached the Majesties? 

“Which way do we have to go?” Anne turned around but saw nothing but trees and her champion. She frowned as he didn’t answer immediately or even react to her voice, he didn’t seem as alert as he should. Slowly she walked towards him, where he supported his weight on a tree with one arm, the other wrapped tightly around his stomach.  
She knew he had been injured during the fight, but he had shrugged it off, said it wasn’t that bad. She had believed him then, frightened and insecure she had just followed him. 

By now Anne doubted his sincerity. There was still some blood on his temple, and some on his clothes – but Aramis had assured that it wasn’t his. Carefully, she placed her hand on his cheek, catching his attention. His eyes were glassy, unfocused as he looked at her in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed that she had come closer to him.

“Aramis? Are you alright?”

“Of course, your majesty.” Aramis forced a smile on his lips, but it wasn’t as playful as usual. “We have head north, there’s a small village we usually use to meet when we take this road. The others will be there, too. With the King, of course.”  
Anne nod slightly. He didn’t doubt that the Musketeers did everything to assure the safety of her and the King. “But shouldn’t your headwound be treated first?”

Aramis looked at her ins disbelief before he laughed it off. “Don’t worry about me, Your Majesty. I’m still fit for duty.” Anne sighed but didn’t dare to argue with him. He was still the one responsible to protect her and not the other way around. Moreover Aramis was experienced with situation like this and would have known when his injuries would have stopped him from fulfilling his duty – at least she hoped it.

“Then let’s go. It’s already getting dark.” 

Aramis nod and pushed himself from the tree to take the lead. He was slower than usual, he knew it. It was hard to concentrate to walk into the right direction and not to stumble on the uneven ground at the same time. His legs were heavier than they should have been, and breathing was harder than normally. He knew something wasn’t right, but there was no way he would have stopped.  
The Queen needed to be in safety first.

He thought back to the ambush, how the others had taken after the bandits who had taken the King with them. Something like that had never happened before. When had everything gone so badly wrong? Where did they fail their duty?  
He had stumbled to his feet once the bandits and other musketeers had vanished in the forest. He forced his body to move as he noticed the open door of the carriage. The Queen hadn’t been with the bandits. As he had reached the wagon he spotted the Queen, sitting on the bench inside, crying. 

“How did it happen that you fell from the horse?” Anne tried to keep Aramis alert as she noticed his mind drifting off more often. 

“I was engaged in a fight with two riders.” He remembered. They had attacked him from both sides, taking all his attention to defend himself. On the back of a horse it was harder defend two attackers at once, especially when they came from both sides. He wasn’t as movable as on his feet and had less strength in his movements. “I didn’t notice another one coming up until he shot my horse.”

“I once fell from a horse as I still was a young girl in Spain. I broke my arm.” Anne recounted and couldn’t help but to flinch at the memory of the pain. The way how he moved, more likely stumbled, she knew that Aramis had injured something too.  
It was only minutes later as the Musketeers foot got stuck under a root. His sensible balance disturbed, he fell. Using both of his arms to catch himself his left arm buckled. He caught the scream that wanted to escape his lips just in time, and let out a pained groan instead. He gave his best to not curse in front of the Queen as he sat up again. 

The arm had already hurt before, was probably sprained just as his ribs. The fall didn’t help.  
Anne was by his side immediately, trying to help him to his feet again. He shrugged her off, pushing himself up with his good arm. “I’m fine, your Majesty. No need for worries.” 

He ignored her stern gaze and started to walk again.

“If we keep going we could reach the village before nightfall.”

“If we keep going you will fall unconscious.” Anne murmured as she walked beside him, watching him with worry and a little bit of fury for his stubbornness. 

“If we stop we will have to spend the night in this goddamned forest. We have no proviant or blankets and there’s no way I would light a fire with those bandits around. We will keep going.”

Anne stopped and pushed her hands into her hips. “You’re forgetting yourself. I am still your Queen, and I am giving the commands.”  
Aramis sighed as he turned to her, his face tensed in pain. “Forgive me, your majesty. I really forgot myself. I just want to keep you safe.”

“And how do you want to protect me in this state? You should at least rest for a while and let me take a look at your wounds.”

“There’s no need nor time, your Majesty. Please, I’ve been in situations similar to this a few times before. We have to move on. We will be safe in the village, there will be musketeers and an Inn.”  
Anne bit her lip, maybe Aramis was right. “Alright.”  
……..  
The sun had turned the sky in an shade of orange by now, announcing that darkness will soon surround them, as they finally reached the edge of the woods.  
“I hate forests.” Aramis mumbled as he tightened his grip around his muskets and walked onto the path leading to the village. “The Inn isn’t far away anymore.” He announced and looked around to make sure no one was following them. 

Because of the late hour the streets were empty, which Aramis was thankful for. Less people meant less potential threats. And even if he was determined to do so, he wasn’t so sure if he was able to protect the Queen in his current condition.

Anne was glad that they had almost made it. It teared at her heart so see Aramis like this. He almost fell a few more times, weren’t it for her or a tree to catch him in time. She tried to talk to him as much as possible, but with the hours passing he got quitter and more unfocused. When he talked, he slurred and was hard to understand. She noticed his hand with the musket tremble. She had never doubted his ability with a weapon, she knew about his reputation as the best shot in Paris – maybe France – but now she wasn’t sure if he would hit a target if it stood right in front of him. When he looked her, his eyes always move from one side to the other, as if they tried to find a point to focus on. 

His walk had become indescribably slow, but she didn’t protest. She was glad he was still on his legs.  
“Let me check it first.” Aramis looked the street up and down one more time before he opened the door to the Inn. As he took in the room, he noticed the familiar owner as well as most of the musketeers that had travelled with them sitting around the tables.  
The looks turned to the door as he stumbled inside, holding the door open for Anne to follow. She saw the relief on every ones face as she strode inside, head held high as if she wasn’t terrible exhausted. She walked across Aramis and into the middle of the room, waiting for Aramis to follow her. But he didn’t come.  
As she turned around, she saw him clinging to the door as if it meant his life. And then, his eyes turned upwards and he crashed to the ground.  
Mere seconds later Athos and d’Artagnan were at the marksman’s side, slapping his cheeks to rouse him. “His head.” The Gascon announced as he found the wound that had probably caused the unconsciousness. 

“I think his arm and ribs were also injured.” Anne told them as she also moved closer.  
The musketeers changed a short, shocked gaze before they raised and bowed deeply. “Excuse us for our impoliteness, Your Majesty.” She shrugged it of with a wave of her hand, there were more important things at the moment.  
“Where is the King?” She asked and was relieved to hear that he was unhurt and slept in one of the Inn’s rooms. “Porthos is guarding him right now.” D’Artagnan explained, but his gaze was already back on his unconscious friend, eager to help him.

“That’s good. Now treat him and inform me if his condition changes.” The Musketeers bowed again as she walked the stairs upwards and towards the King’s rooms. 

….

“He’s gotten heavier, didn’t he?” D’Artagnan breathed out as they had placed Aramis on a bed. Athos lips moved slightly upwards at the command before he freed the still unconscious man from his clothes, until he laid in front of them only in his breeches. Both of them hissed as they noticed the dark stains on his skin, colouring the left side of his torso in blue and violet. The arm on the same side was unhealthy swollen and coloured the same. 

“How bad is his head?” Athos wanted to know, while wrapping his brother’s torso to protect the sprained ribs. “I don’t think any of them are broken, he was lucky.”

“It’s still bleeds.” Worry laced the Gascon’s voice as he cleaned the wound. It wasn’t that deep, that they would need to really worry, but there was already some dirt in it. 

“He will be fine. It’s Aramis.”


	5. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis had been taken hostage in order to get some valuable information from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS!!!  
> graphic description of rape and violence.

Please read the Warnings in the chapter notes first. This one is quite different from the others.

____

 

He knew he had been broken. He didn’t hold back the whimpers anymore, as he was dragged across the cold, rough stone floor, his naked feet scratching open. 

He had stopped fighting them back the moment the manacles were opened to move him. He had stopped to hope to ever get out there alive. Had had given up.  
There was only little strength and a sparkle of dignity left in him, and he needed all of it to keep the secret safe. He may have given up, but he wouldn’t give up the ones he loved.

He was doomed to die in this cold and dark cell, but it didn’t mean he had to take his loved ones with him.  
So he let them beat him, whip him, burn him, cut him. He screamed and moaned, until the pain let him fall unconscious. But he didn’t speak. He never would.  
The first days they had promised him to let him go, if he talked. By now they promised him a fast and swift death, and he couldn’t deny that he had already thought about accepting the offer. No. If the safety of his brothers, Anne and his son meant that he had to endure all the tortures these men came up with, he would. He won’t be a coward and just die because it is easier. 

The cell had become his personal hell and he wondered if this was god’s way to punish him for all the sins he had committed.  
As the guards stopped and let go of his arms he dropped to the ground, to weak to stay upright. He had lost his dignity long ago and didn’t try to get up again. It was hopeless after all.  
“You’re stubborn.” The man, who had introduced himself as Marques, spoke as he looked down on Aramis.  
“I will never tell you anything.” The musketeer muttered, even though it irritated his swollen jaw.  
“I think you will.”

The challenging tone send a new sensation through Aramis, a new will to fight, the urge to prove Marques wrong. “You’ve tortured be for – what? – weeks? Months? You’ve tried everything and I still didn’t tell you anything. What do you think could make me give up now?”

Marques grinned at the regained will in his prisoner. He looked forward to take it from him again.  
At the flick of his hand, the guards bound Aramis to a hook in the ceiling, then ripped the only breeches from his legs. It were the last thing he had on his body, the dirty and tattered fabric, the only thing that had spend him any illusion of warmth. He shivered.  
He had long enough been a soldier in this cruel world to know what was to come. The urge to plead, to even beg for mercy grew – but he with stand it. No, he would not let his family down. 

“I’ve heard you grew up in a brothel.” Marquess spoke as he walked up behind Aramis, who tensed up at the statement. The man knew already more than he thought he would.  
“I’ve always thought that a face like yours would look better in the bed, ready to be taken, than in one of these uniforms.”

Aramis gulped down the panic that formed in his throat and stopped him from breathing. He closed his eyes as he noticed Marques move and bit his lip as something made contact with his back. The barrel of a gun. Maybe all of this would finally end?

His hope shattered, as Marques moved the barrel downwards until it pressed against his entrance. Aramis held back a whimper, as the barrel entered forcefully, hard and fast and seemed to rip him apart. He kept his eyes closed, to ashamed to look the guards, to look anyone, into the eyes. It felt as if the last of the pride he had, was taken from him.

The movements were hard and hurtful, forced him to swing back and forth as his feet didn’t reach the ground.  
“You should have stayed with your mother. Would have made good money, little whore.” Marques pushed the barrel inside one more time before he pulled it out. Aramis let out a breath and tried to relax somehow. He thought that it was over.  
But god seemed to hate him and the guards lifted him off the hook and pushed him onto a table, were he was forced to lie on his stomach and his hand and feet were shackled to it again.

He heard some rustling and felt some movement behind him. A hand gripped into his hair and yanked his head back, another forced his mouth open. His jaw protested against the movement and caused him to whimper in pain. But he had not time to concentrate on the pain, as something was shove into his mouth. Tears gathered in his eyes as he understood what was happening and the second guard climbed onto the table, entering him from behind.  
Marquess grinned at the scene and watched for a few minutes, as his guards took the musketeer.

“We should keep him, boss.” The one in the front moaned and pulled out to come onto the marksmans face. 

“We will, don’t you worry.” Marques crossed his arms and kept watching. The Musketeer scum was already bleeding out of his arse, as his guard kept his thrusts fast and hard.

Marques took a step forward to talk to Aramis. “This will be you life. We will beat and use you as we want. You should know by now that I have many men working for me. Thirty, to be precise and everyone wants to have his turn with a good little slut like you.”

Normally, Aramis would have hissed an answer, but suddenly the door bursted open with a thud. He couldn’t see what was happening but the clash of swords told him everything. Soon the man behind him was gone, and Marques was silent.

As the sounds of the fight stopped he finally heard the voices of his brothers. He squeezed his eyes shut, he wished they wouldn’t have come – not in a moment like this. They shouldn’t have seen him like this.  
The shackles were opened and something was draped over his back. Just now he forced his eyes open and noticed his Athos staring at him with concern. He didn’t miss the guilt in the swordsman’s eyes as he handed him another cloke to cover himself. 

Aramis’ hands trembled as he sat up with a moan, the movement irritating his bruised ribs. It was harder than though to wrap himself into the cloak, as his broken fingers wouldn’t cooperate but he was desperate to not let someone help him with it. He was humiliated enough.  
“You’ve found me.” He muttered in surprise and shock as he was helped to stand up by Porthos and d’Artagnan. His legs broke away under him, a burning pain spread through his lower body. But his brothers were there to catch him and Porthos heaved him up into his arms. Could it get even more humiliating?  
Right now, Aramis wished he was dead as he was carried out of the cell.

“We’re sorry. For not coming earlier.” Athos whispered, guilt lingering in his voice.

“I’m sorry for breaking.” Muttered Aramis but didn’t meet his Captain’s eyes. 

“Have you told them something?” D’Artagnan wanted to know. Aramis shook his head, no he didn’t.

“Then you didn’t break, mon ami. You’ve stayed strong, stronger than any one of us would have.” Porthos pulled the cloak closer around him as they stepped outside into the rain.


	6. Amputation (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part three of Minister Aramis and Captain d'Artagnan running from angry parisians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of amputation.  
> No other warnings.

The yells echoed through the palace and the footsteps above them seemed to get louder with each minute. Until one moment, where everything seemed to be silent, except the door leading to the hidden tunnel as it was kicked in. 

D’Artagnan cursed under his breath, his knuckles turned white with the force he gripped his sword. “They’re coming. We stay hidden, until they give us no choice. On my command we attack,” he changed a short glance with the two musketeers that had followed them, who nod in agreement. “And you run.” He turned his head towards Aramis, who was currently checking if his pistol was loaded.

“I’m not.” He answered drily, putting the gun away and drawing his rapier. “I’m not running from a fight. I never did before.”

“Minister.” D’Artagnan hissed, as he gathered all his strength to not break protocol and dishonour the Minister in front of others.  
“We’re here to protect you. We can’t do it if you don’t listen to me. We don’t know how many are coming and in how far they’re armed. We can’t risk that they get to you.” 

He watched his friend, but unfortunately his mimic didn’t change. And d’Artagnan sighed as he knew that he had no chance against Aramis, when he had set something to his mind.

“As you’ve said: You have no clue how many they are. So there’s no way I’m leaving you behind to die. Moreover, if you have forgotten, I’m in no state to run anywhere.”

Aramis pointed at the wooden leg and the reddish stumb above it. He had a point there. Still, there was no way d’Artagnan could let the First Minister fight. 

“You will hide until it’s over. It’s better when no one knows that you’re still here. Besides, how do you plan on fighting with this, when you can’t even run?”  
He knew that his words would hurt his brother, but d’Artagnan had no choice, when he wanted to protect him. 

However, Aramis eyes remained stubborn as the shouts came ever closer. “Porthos isn’t using his legs in a fight much either.”

“But he’s no out of training for years! And stronger! He doesn’t need his legs that much.” D’Artagnan leaned around to corner and cursed again as he saw the first torches and the end of the tunnel. They would soon find them.

“I’m neither running away like a coward or hide like a child.” Aramis hissed and pushed himself up to his leg. 

“Minister d’Herblay-“ D’Artagnan’s voice had almost any pleading tone in it, but as Aramis raised his hand in a sign to stay silent, he let out a long breath. What he couldn’t hold back was a quiet “stubborn idiot”, which caused the remaining Musketeers to look at him in shock. He decided to not pay them too much attention as he glanced around the corner for a second time.

“They’re here.” And only mere seconds an angry mob of simple men with torches and pitchforks ran towards them.  
Instinctively, d’Artagnan stood between the mob and Aramis, but the Minister had other plans as he stepped beside him to fight at the first row. However, as they were only four men, there weren’t even two rows now. 

“That are at least ten.” One of the Musketeers, Pierre, muttered. The odds weren’t great, but Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged a short, confident gaze. They had fought against more men with more experience and under worse circumstances. On the other hand it had been in a different time. An easier one, as it were still the four of them, young and restless. Then, Aramis still had his leg and was in training, d’Artagnan hadn’t served in way too many battles, and Athos and Porthos had been with them. 

Neither of them doubted the ability of Pierre and Maurice, but it weren’t there brothers, who knew every of their moves by heart.  
On the other hand, all of this didn’t matter now. They hadn’t a choice anyways. Aramis didn’t wish to hurt these desperate people, the ones he was supposed to care for and to protect and save. But he had failed them, he had failed France. And this was the consequence now. Some of them looked awfully sick, others way to weak and thin to even hold a weapon and others were just angry and desperate, may have lost family to the hunger and disease. 

He asked god for forgiveness as his blade thrust through the stomach of one attacker in order to save his own life. Them or him, and he chose himself. He felt terrible, but he had always been a selfish man.  
He slit another man’s throat, noticing that d’Artagnan was struggling with three opponents at once. Aramis stumbled over a body that lay between them, wincing at the irritation on his stub, almost losing his footage, but regaining it in the last moment to thrust his main gauche in the back of one of the three. D’Artagnan killed off the other two in moments, and suddenly silence felt the tunnel.

Aramis gulped at the picture in front of him. It wasn’t the blood, not even the intestines that were seen, nor the bones that broke through skin. He had seen many of these wounds in his life, too many to care about it anymore. It was the thought that he had murdered his own people, the once he was meant to protect. They didn’t attack to harm them or to steal, they attacked because they were desperate and dying. Because they had already lost so much and were so scared of losing more, that they did the last thing they could think off. And he had killed them.

He heard d’Artagnan’s distance voice call for him, and just the nudge on his arm ripped him out of his trance. “We have to leave, Minister. More are coming.”

Aramis gulped down the bile that had risen into his throat and followed the Captain. Pierre and Maurice were right behind them as they hurried through the tunnel.

His stub burned, causing Aramis to curse in his mother-tongue as he continued to try to keep up with the soldiers. “Shall I help-“ “No.” Aramis cut his friend up, too proud to accept the offer. He may was a cripple but he wasn’t useless. He could at least walk by himself.  
Unfortunately, they were almost running by now, the distant sound of shouts still following them. 

It had been years since he had ran the last time. It was the first time he had tried to, just to see how mobile he was with the wooden leg – he fell and needed to be carried inside after he bruised his ankle. After that, he had given it up.  
His good leg strained under the weight he had to put on it, and his stub burned where it rubbed against the wood.

He hadn’t noticed that he had fallen behind until the others stopped to turn back to him. He saw d’Artagnan mutter something under his breath, before the Captain came up to him. 

“We’re too slow.” 

The next thing he saw was a fist, before it collided with his temple. He swore to have heard Pierre startle and Maurice to gasp. Then, everything went black.


	7. His mother tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Aramis spoke spanish, and one time someone spoke it to him.
> 
> I'm no native spanish speaker, so sorry for any mistakes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of curse words in 2.

1.

“Mi… hijo?” (My son?)

His breaths was shallow as his eyes stared pleadingly into Porthos’. Aramis hand was wet with blood, but his grip was surprisingly strong as he grabbed the hand of his friend. His naturally tanned skin was ashen by now.

“What? I don’t understand, Aramis.” Worry concealed the confusion in Porthos’ voice. He gently tightened his own grip around his brothers hand, making sure that Aramis knew he was with him. Porthos wasn’t sure what Aramis’ was aware off by now. The switch to his mothers tongue indicated confusion.

“Mi hijo, ¿Está a salvo?” (My son, is he in safety?)

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” Porthos frowned as he take a look at the wide blown pupils of his friend, realizing that the grip at his hand had went limp. 

“Hey, don’t you dare to pass out. Stay with me.”

He put more pressure on the wound of Aramis’ side, noticing with worry that the blood flow didn’t stop.

“Louis. Mi hijo.” Aramis panted, before his gaze became more unfocused. He no longer saw into Porthos’ eyes but more likely gazed into the sky. At least the name made Porthos understand what his friend was talking about. Or at least he hoped he understood correctly.

“He’s safe. Athos and d’Artagnan are with them. They are protecting him. Louis is safe.”

This seemed to take some restlessness from the wounded soldier. “Gracias.”  
A small smile grazed his lips as he fell into unconsciousness, finally allowing the pain and blood loss to take the upper hand. Now, that he knew that his family and friends were save, he could let his guard down for a moment.  
….

 

2.

“Mierda!” (Shit) He kicked against a nearby chair, causing it to fly through the room and clatter against the wall. 

“Aramis it’s not that bad-“ Athos slowly took a step forward, but still careful to not get too close to his friend. When furious, Aramis wasn’t to be taken lightly.

“Callate!” (Shut up!) 

“They will be fine. Both of them.”

“I know that.” Aramis hissed as he turned to his Captain, fury lacing his features. “Still this… cobarde (coward)… he should be… I should strangle him myself.” 

He shook his head, still not believing that he had allowed this drunkard to shoot d’Artagnan and stab Porthos in the back, before he took him down. 

“Cabrón.” (Prick)

He opened his fist just to close it a second later again. He still was way to furious to follow Athos into the infirmary where his brothers laid, injured because of this… “Hijo de puta.” (son of a whore)

Athos lips twitched slightly in amusement, even though he knew he shouldn’t find this funny at all. But even outraged, Aramis had at least enough self-effacement to curse in a language no one understood. Still, Athos could guess what his friends words meant.

“He not even announced himself! Just shot from behind them! If I ever get my hands around his neck again I will… estrangularlo hasta que sus ojos se vuelvan locos y se muerda la lengua (strangle him until his eyes blop out and he bites his tongue off).”

 

3.

“Ella es hermosa.” Aramis whispered with a bright smile on his lips. He caressed her pink cheeks with a finger, while rocking her back and forth in his arms.

D’Artagnan stood beside him, proudly. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I assume it’s only the best.”

Aramis nod slightly, not taking his eyes of the little girl, wrapped into white sheets. “I said that she’s beautiful. Like her mother.” 

“Yes – Yes she is.” D’Artagnan smiled towards Constance, who was busy cleaning the dishes, even though her husband had said that she shouldn’t do it. She should rest and not work.

Aramis smile faded into a short mask of shock as the little girl clenched his eyes shut and began to cry. However, he caught himself fast. He wasn’t only good with Ladies but with babies too. So, barely able tob e heard by the parents, he began singing to the bundle in his arms.

“Duérmete mi niño, duérmete mi amor duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.  
Este niño mío que nació de noche quiere que lo lleve a pasear en coche.  
Este niño mío que nació de día quiere que lo lleve a la dulcería.  
Duérmete mi niño, duérmete mi amor duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.“ 

He smiled again, as the little girl fell into a fitfull sleep.

 

4.

“No te entiende.” (I can’t understand you.)

Aramis stopped his struggle in the tight grip of the bandits. The man, who apparently was the leader, stepped forward to examine Aramis closely. “We saw you riding from the estate of the Comte. You have to got some information.”

Aramis tried to raise his arms, but they were tightly held by the men beside him. So he just shrugged innocently. “No hablo francés.” (I don’t speak French.)

The leader rolled his eyes in annoyance, but obviously not sure if he should buy the act or not. “Search him.” A moment later his jacket was ripped open an hands were searching every part of his body. Lucky that the Comte had given him his answer in person and not as a letter.  
He tried his best to look as innocent as possible and couldn’t have been luckier to have let his pauldron off today. “Soy un hombre sencillo.” (I’m a simple man.) “Por favor solo dejame ir.” (Please just let me go.)

The bandits changed a few confused looks, until their leader sighed. Aramis had to hold back a triumphing smile. He couldn’t believe his luck this day. 

“Let him go. He hasn’t got the letter.” 

The arms were off him and moments alter he found himself back on the back off his horse, riding back to Paris with the information safely in his mind.

 

5.

“Mi amor.” (My love) Aramis sighed, kissing down the length of her neck, his heart beating faster as she sighs in pleasure.

“Te amo.” (I love you.) He murmurs in their boths mother tongue, kissing down her chest and slowly opening the laces of her dress.

“Aramis,” she whispered, searching his mouth with her lips. “We shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong.” 

“Lo sé.” (I know). He kissed her again, not able to be apart from her for any longer. “Pero se siente tan bien.” (But it feels so right.)

She once again sighed in pleasure, as he has finally opened her dress and guides her over to the bed. 

“Te amo, Anna.” He repeats, not stopping his sweet assault. She relaxes into his grip, letting it happen.

“Te amo también, René.”

He smiles softly against her white skin. 

All of this feels so damn right. So perfect, like it was meant to be. Hearing her speaking in spanish, saying his real name, it just feels… right. So he lets himself loose in the desire.

 

6.

“René Aramis d’Herblay!” He flinched at the name, but hurried over to her anyway.

“¿Qué te dije?” (What did I tell you?)

“I shall not climb on trees…” the boy muttered, shuffling his feet. As he looked up mama had raised an expecting brow at him. “Or houses, or moving carts… or anything else higher than a chair.” He hastily looks to the ground, suddenly finding it much more interesting than the busy city around them. 

He heard his mamá sigh loudly, noticed how she crouched down to be face to face with him. 

“Nunca me escucharás. ¿Podrías?” (You will never listen to me, will you?”

He didn’t dare to look her in the eyes, knowing that he disapointing her. “I’m sorry, mamá. I will be more careful next time.”

“No estoy enojado contigo.” (I’m not angry with you) Was the gentle answer, warm hands caressing his cheeks. 

“Sólo estoy preocupado. Eres mi unico hijo, René.“ (I’m only concerned. You’re my only son, René.)

Slowly, he dared to look up from the ground and into the warm brown eyes of mamá. He wrapped his short arm around her neck, burying his head into her shoulder. “I’m sorry, mamá.”


	8. The lad and him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan and Aramis will share the shump in this one.
> 
> WARNINGS: Graphic description of violence / torture

It was the beginning of spring, the air not so cold as he would freeze, but not too hot to sweat under his leather uniform. A soft wind blew him his hair into the face, bringing the fresh smell of morning dew with it. A few birds sang in the distance, while the sun slowly raised into the orange sky.  
All of this remembered d’Artagnan of Gascony, of the small farm his father and he had back then. Back then he would have already been out in the fields at a time like this. But he didn’t need to be long in Paris to adjust to it’s rhythm. So now he used to stay up until the sun had long ago settled and stood up only when the bells rang. It had been weeks since he had last enjoyed such beautiful sunrise as this one. Another reason why he truly regretted to not be able to enjoy this moment in the beautiful nature out of Paris.

He shook his head to get the strains of hair out of his face, but the matted blood glued them to his brow. The only cause the movement had was to awaken the throbbing in his head again, making the feeling of nausea seem even worse. The pain an sickness had shortly distracted him from concentrating to keep his balance, making him stumble on the uneven and muddy ground. He felt the eyes of his brother burn on his back but didn’t dare to turn around. But he didn’t need to to know what they would look like. A dangerous fire would flicker in them, addressed to the men that had overcome them. Determination would make the brown colour shine, the will to survive and escape. But most importantly, worry would outline them, bringing out the wrinkles around his eyes and between his brows. 

D’Artagnan wanted to stop and assure his brother that he was fine so bad, but if he true to himself he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure how far his legs would carry him. Every single one of his thoughts was focused on putting one feet in front of another – there was no time left to talk.  
During the ambush he had been hit on the head from behind. After that he had woken up to ropes around his arms and finding Aramis secured in a similar way. Back then, Aramis had tried to make sure that he was okay, but before they could talk the bandits had hauled them to their feet and forced to move on.

…..

Aramis had noticed the wobbling of d’Artagnan’s legs and how the lad stumbled every now and then. It was a wonder that he was still upright, if you pay attention to his head wound. It still oozed slighty, the hair of the lad almost black from the liquid. Aramis hands twitched with the need to do something, but even if he could have moved them – what he couldn’t – he wouldn’t have been allowed to to treat to the boys wound.

He was somehow relieved as they finally stopped, as he wasn’t sure if d’Artagnan could have walked any longer. On the other hand, Aramis knew it wouldn’t be a good sign that they made a halt. It was still early, enough light to walk and not a single soul out on the streets – the perfect time to get captured musketeers to a destination. That they had stopped in a clearing with nothing around now, could only mean one thing: There was no destination the musketeers where supposed to reach.

They were both pushed down to a tree and bound to it. Only a few metres apart, but for Aramis it felt like miles as he still wasn’t able to tend to the lad, whose head had shortly lulled to the side before he gasped in shock an ripped his head back upwards.

“I’m fine.” D’Artagnan assured, as he noticed Aramis worried glance. The marksman huffed, but there was nothing he could do now as the leader of the bandits crouched in front of them.

“Just tell us which route the transport took and nothing bad will happen.” The grin showed the man’s yellow teeth, also emphasizing the long scar on his cheek.  
Of course, the musketeers stayed silent. They would not betray their country, the king and their brothers.

There was a cargo full of gold on it’s way from Le Havre to the King and the musketeers had been tasked with supervising it. In order to distract possible bandits they had sent out three further wagons – filled with rocks and wood, but similar protected. They had decided against a big cologne of musketeers with he gold as it would raise suspicions but decided to put only two men in charge of a wagon. It was a risky plan – would the real cargo be attacked, two musketeers probably would not eb able to protect it. On the other hand, the likelihood for an ambush shrunk.

Obviously the bandits fell to the trick and had followed the wrong wagon – the one with d’Artagnan and Aramis. 

“Oh I understand.” Scarface stood up slowly, still grinning. “You’re King’s men, loyal and honourable soldiers, would never betray King and Country bla bla bla.”

“And we are handsome too.”

The smirk was blown from Aramis by a sudden blow of a fist against his cheek, forcing his head to fall to the side. 

“I see. You like to make fun. Unfortunately, I don’t have time for this. But maybe, this boy will be more talk active.”  
Scarface waved two of his men closer, who started loosening d’Artagnan’s ropes. The boy was startled by the sudden action around him, as he had had almost passed out. 

“Don’t.” Aramis insisted, pulling on his ropes to emphasize his words. “Leave him alone, he’s not even conscious enough to answer you anything.”

Scarface shrugged, still not stopping his men. “It will be easier to break him.”

Aramis cursed under his breath, as he once again tugged on his ropes. 

“He knows nothing! He’s just a stable hand, doesn’t even wear a pauldron, look.” 

Aramis nodded towards the fleur-de-lis on his arm and then to d’Artagnan, who still hadn’t got his commission. The boy seemed oblivious to what happened around him.  
Scarface took in the uniforms of both men, thinking about what Aramis just had said. “Well, if you’re so eager to participate.” He waved to his men, who let go form d’Artagnan’s ropes and continued their work with Aramis.

Once free from the ropes he was pulled to his feet, his arms raised and bound again to a branch high enough that only his tip toes reached the ground. He grunted at the weight that was put onto his shoulders, but kept a stoic face otherwise. There was not much Scarface could do to him, he hadn’t endured before.

“Last chance to talk.” Scarface muttered as he turned his back to Aramis and walked towards the fire.

The marksman couldn’t see what his captor was doing, but it couldn’t be anything good. Still, he wouldn’t betray his brothers. They just needed to hold out long enough for the gold to reach Paris. Then, their absence would be noticed and help send. Only a few days till help could arrive.  
Scarface turned back around, his dagger in his hand, the tip shining in a fiery red. Aramis fingers clenched the ropes that bound him to the tree, anticipating for the pain he knew would come.  
Then, there were no further questions. Just this ugly smirk and fire. He grunted, bit down onto his tongue to not cry out as the blade was pressed onto his chest, burning the fabric of his shirt and then his skin. Seconds later the blade was gone, but the fire remained. 

Aramis took in fasts breaths to overcame the pain and dizziness, not really noticing how Scarface heated up the blade again.  
And again.  
Again.  
And another time.  
He pressed the metal to his thigh.  
Stabbed it into his arm.  
Scratched with it across his neck.

Aramis didn’t know when, but he screamed.  
Blood had filled his mouth from biting his tongue too hard, his legs had given in a time ago and holding the pain in was just too much effort by now.

He barely noticed how he was brought back in a sitting position and bound again.  
He let his head roll to the side in exhaustion, opening his eyes only moments later to see big brown ones staring at him. 

“You alright?” D’Artagnan slurred, the headwound had obviously taken it’s toll on the lad. 

Aramis forced what was supposed to be a reassuring smile on his face. “I’m fine.”


	9. What once has been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NO WARNINGS
> 
> So this will be a little bit AU.  
> It takes places around 30 years after the last season. Aramis had never taken the place as first minister but decided to learn about medicine. 
> 
> He had ended up back in the garrison.   
> A little bit melancholic but no real whump.
> 
> As I've written this one late at night on my phone I apologize for minor mistakes.

Eric had been so concentrated on parrying the blows that rained down on him that he didn't have the opportunity to look where he was walking to until his back collided with it.

He winced as he felt a sharp edge sinking into his back, letting his blade drop. Maurice stopped in his movement surprised, eyes wide.  
"Are you okay?"

Eric nodded, pushing himself off the beam with the nail in it. "Just managed to get stuck on this nail." He muttered and bowed to retrieve his weapon.

Maurice took a short look at the nail that was plunged into the beam - they wanted to have it repaired weeks ago. Then his eyes wandered to Eric's back, causing him to wince in sympathy.

"You should the Doctor look at it. The nail is quite rusty, we don't want it getting infected." 

Eric sighed. He really didn't want to bother the doctor with such a minor injury, otherwise he knew Tha Maurice was right. 

"I will be back in ten." He assured and walked over to the infirmary.

Just now Eric noticed that he had never actually been in there. The door was closed most of the time to give the patients some peace and fortunately he had never been one of them.  
He had seen the doctor a few times, when he had hurried out of the infirmary to help carrying a injured man inside or get some new supplies. Otherwise, he seemed to live in there - or at least Eric thought so. 

He frowned as he knocked slightly. He didn't even know how the medic or was called. Everyone just called him 'Doctor'. Even the seasoned soldiers and Captain Rafael d'Artganan called him like this.  
As far as Eric knew, the doctor had been in the regiment's infirmary longer than anyone of the serving men.

"Come in." The friendly soft voice called through the door, which screached over the floor as Eric opened it.

"Good morning, and doctor." Eric tried carefully as he took a step in.

The infirmarys windows had been shut, curtains closed. A lonely man lay in one of the many beds, sleeping soundly. Or Eric hoped that he just slept.

The doctor had been standing to his right, cleaning some of the gruesome looking tools. "Eric, right?" the doctor smiled, inviting him inside.

Eric nodded, surprised that the doctor already knew him. He closed the door behind him, careful to do it as quietly as possible.

And for the first time in all his time in the regiment he really looked at the doctor. He had to be in his early sixtys now, grey long hair graced his face, wrinkled by the age but still somehow youthful. His beard was kept orderly and in the fashion, which was modern a few decades ago.  
Kind eyes looked at him, a smile on the lips, a scar stood out on his brow.

"What brought you in my humble infirmary, son?"

Eric shrugged, feeling the heat flushing into his cheeks. "A minor training accident."

"Let me see it then."  
The doctor gestured towards a stool on which Eric sat down, his back towards the medic. 

His shirt was lifted high enough for the doctor to get a good look at the wound. "Let me guess.. You ran in a rusty nail?"

Ashamed, with bright red cheeks, Eric nodded. He was glad the doctor couldn't see his face right now. 

He heard a soft laugh before the doctor clapped him on the shoulder gently. "You will live, son."

"Tell that Maurice." Eric also tried a laugh, but even though he was still somewhat tensed.

 

He heard some rustling behind him before a liquid was put on his back, burning where the wound was.  
"Don't be ashamed. Much more embarrassing things can happen to a soldier in his career."

"And that would be?" Curiosity what the doctor had experienced in his time with the regiment emerged.

"Choking on an apple, tripping over a stone and breaking a foot, passing out on guard duty because of the heat, almost drowning in a river not deeper that the waist.. Oh I could go on forever." The doctor laughed as he crunched some herbs in order to make a paste for the wound.

"That really happened to some men?" Eric asked amused, forgotten the embarrassment.

"Not to any men. To the best of the best. Athos choked on the apple, D'Artagnan passed out and Porthos almost drowned."

"Rafael D'Artagnan?" is Eric turned his head to see the doctor who shook his head.

"His father. Charles. He had been captain before his son took over."

"So... Athos, Porthos.. You mean the inseperables? You knew them?" Excitement laced his voice. Since he had been a boy Eric had heard the tales of these heroes. They were one of the reasons he wanted to become a musketeer.

The doctor nodded smiling, putting the paste on the wound and bandaging it." It should be fine now, son."

 

"And what about Aramis? He tripped and broke a bone?"

The doctor laughed at the memories and nod. "Yes. In front of some fine ladies. It was quite an embarrassment."

Eric smiled as he stood up. "You just have been here for quite some time if you knew them, doctor."  
He turned around, ready to head out before he remembered something.   
"Did you know them well?"

A sadness overtook the smile on the doctors lips. "Like brothers." 

"I'm sorry... I've heard they have passed away some time ago." he suddenly felt bad for bringing up this theme.

But the doctor wasn't angry and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"As you said: It happened long ago. It's fine. Actually I liked to talk about them. Now get out before we wake him." He indicated towards the sleeping patient.

Eric mouthed a thank you, before he left the infirmary.

Before he could close the door again a woman hurried towards it and held it open to enter the infirmary. 

He heard the happily surprised voice of the doctor greet the woman. "Constance. How are you?"

"Aramis. I've got news for you. "

With a thud, the door closed leaving Eric stunned as he puzzled the parts together.

"Maurice! I've got news for you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this small drapple.   
> I'm always glad about some reviews xxx


	10. The lad and him (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Graphic description of torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO I've just noticed that "Salvation" (with Santiago Cabrera as the maain character) is now availabe on Netflix in my country!!! Have binged watched the first episodes, and almost couldn't stop.
> 
> This chapter had been somehow inspired by episode 4, or the ones watching it. MAybe you can guess what part of it was inspired by it?
> 
> However, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Always thankful for reviews xx

“At least let me take a look at his wounds.” D’Artagnan pleaded to their captors, after food and water had already been denied to them. Aramis had passed out minutes after his ‘questioning’ had stopped, leaving d’Artagnan alone to deal with the men and his wounds. The lad hated to beg, but if he could help his brother with it, he would do it again and again. Aramis had sacrificed himself to keep him safe, the least he could do was to help him not catching an infection. The bandits hadn’t even tried to be careful to not kill their victim through the aftermaths of their torture. The Musketeers were useful only for a days more. Once the gold was gone, they weren’t needed anymore. So there was no reason for the bandits to be careful with them.

They hadn’t even ripped Aramis’ clothes apart before plunging the hot blade on it, burning the fabric to his skin.

“No.”

D’Artagnan sighed, but stopped his struggling once the bandits had wandered over to the fire, out of reach. There was no use in spending his strength in useless fights. He needed to save it for the right moment.

He wondered if he should wake his companion, but as there was nothing he could offer hi he decided to let him rest as long as possible.

D’Artagnan decided to keep watch, even though there wasn’t much he was could have done to protect them from further harm – it at least made him feel not so helpless. With the sun gone, his headache has fortunately shrunk to a acceptable amount of pain. It was kind of ironic, but now he was somehow thankful that they were bound to the trees. At least he wouldn’t have to ride or walk now, sure that he would have felt sick or unconscious after a few minutes.

…

D’Artagnan must have fallen asleep during his watch.  
The sound of steps and the rumbling of laughter woke him from a restless sleep. Beside him, Aramis had awoken earlier. He seemed more lucid again, but d’Artagnan wasn’t sure if this was a good thing.

“I’ve heard you have asked after water for your friend last night?” Scarface asked the lad, an ugly grin on his lips as ever. Aramis frowned, he didn’t like where this was going.

But d’Artagnan was still a young recruit, untouched by the cruelties of soldiering and full of hope. “Yes.” He stood his ground, trying to make his shoulders seem as broad as possible.

“Then we won’t deny you this wish.”

D’Artagnan let out a relivied breath, oblivious to Aramis’ scepticism as two of the bandits came up to him. As his hands were freed and a gun trained on d’Artagnans head, his mistrust was proved right.

Aramis was forced to lie onto his back just to be bound again, only then the weapon was taken from the lads head, who’s spirit changed from confused to angry. “What are you doing?!”

The marksman shot him a short but meaningful gaze, hoping that the boy would get it. > _Don’t worry. I’ve got this. Stay out of this._ >

Unwillingly, d’Artagnan pressed his lips on each other. He didn’t want to disobey an order from a higher ranking soldier – even if it was a wordless one. He trusted Aramis to know how to handle situations like this and to have a plan to get both of this.

On the other hand he had already experienced several times how reckless and suicidal Aramis’ plans were when it came to protecting the ones he loved.

However, as a towel was placed over Aramis’ face and water poured down on it, d’Artagnan couldn’t just keep still and watch. He began to struggle against his ropes again, protesting against the treatment of his friend. He was choking!  
Aramis struggled to breath, his arms and legs trying to move but held in place by the tight ropes.

“Just tell us where the gold is.” Scarface ordered, taking the towel of his face. Aramis spluttered out water before gasping for air. But his attention wasn’t on scarface as he was able to order his thoughts again, but on his struggling brother.

“D’Artagnan stay quiet, this is an order.” He hadn’t the opportunity to see the lad gulp but obey. D’Artagnan stopped his efforts, but wasn’t anymore relaxed as the towel was placed back on Aramis’ face. He had to hold himself back to not call out again.

“Where is the gold?!”  
Aramis grinned – once he was able to. “You think I’m scared of some water?”

After several repeats of the procedure, d’Artagnan felt as if he had to vomit. He didn’t to watch this any longer, but it felt wrong to look away when his brother was tortured.

He had stopped counting a few minutes ago, but it had to be the fifteens time the towel was taken from Aramis’ face as Scarface seemed frustrated. The marksman still laid on his back, struggling to get enough air into his lungs while some water still blocked it’s way.  
“This isn’t working. We’re taking the boy.”

At this, the marksmans eyes shut open. “No. I’ve told you… he knows nothing.” The sound he made as he wheezed in some air was painful, causing d’Artagnan to wince in sympathy.

He wanted to protest. To say that he knew as much as Aramis did, but the marksman shot him another glare. He must have had a plan. Could he dare to ruin it? On the other hand, could he let his brother continue to suffer? There seemed to be no good solution.

Except…  
“I will show it to you.” D’Artagnan announced, causing a stunned silence take over the men. Aramis looked at him in shock, shaking his head. “Don’t do it, d’Artagnan. This would be high treason. We made a vow!” Aramis was sure his brother would never betray them, even though he had not yet made his vow. But what ever he had in mind – and Aramis prayed that the lad really had something in mind while doing this – he needed to play along.

  
“As you’ve told them earlier: I’m no Musketeer, just a stable hand. I haven’t vowed anything to anyone. And I won’t risk my life just for some stupid gold!”

  
“Enough of this now. Tell us the route.” Scarface seemed getting more and more impatient the closer he got to his gold.

 

“I’m not sure I could tell you correctly. They are supposed to take the same route that we took on our way towards Le Havre. I’m not good at reading maps or things like this, but when I see the road I know the way.”

Scarface thought about it a few moments, trying to make out if he was being lied to or not. But the want for the gold won and he agreed. “Make them ready for the ride. We will break camp immediately.”  
With that, action came to the camp. Things were packed and horses readied.

D’Artagnan and Aramis were freed from the trees just to be put on two separate horses and secured to their saddles. The horses reins were bound to the beasts of two of the bandits, making sure that the musketeers could not just ride away.

  
“How are you?” D’Artagnan asked once there was a somewhat calm moment.

He saw that Aramis tried to keep as straight as possible in the saddle but didn’t miss the strains in his muscles and the way he winced with each breath. “I will live. If your plan works.”  
  
D’Artagnan grinned at him. “Did you have a better one than letting yourself being tortured to death?”  
  
“Oh, they wouldn’t have killed me until they knew they had no chance left to get the gold.”  
  
“And after that?”  
“They would have killed us both.” Aramis shrugged. “But if we had been lucky the others would have had enough time to  find us before that happened.”  
  
“A bad plan, actually.”  
  
“And yours is better?”  
  
D’Artagnan shrugged. “Maybe we will just skip the torture and die right away?”  
  
Aramis laughed drily, causing him to wince in pain. “Sound good to me.”


	11. The start of it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings needed.

He breathed in deeply before putting on the too big, old and used leather jacket. The buttons had fallen off a long time ago, replaced by some black ones - not matching the brown of the jacket the slightest. It was an unfimiliar, wearing leather over his usual clothes. But it felt good.

He slipped into too small boots. Because of the many years he had worn them, the leather was so thin by now that his toes threatened to come through.  
But he didn't care. He felt proud.  
And once he would get his first salary he would even be able to buy new shoes as well as new clothes.

He brushed through his hair with his fingers one more time before leaving.  
He couldn't walk fast enough, the desire to reach his destination growing with each step.  
Until he had reached it. In front of the gates of the training grounds, he stopped.  
Suddenly, a feeling he barely felt, fear, settled in his chest.  
Now, as he saw all these seasoned soldiers in their nice uniforms and fitting shoes, he felt out of place. He felt stupid in the leather jacket he had gotten from an old friend of his mother and in his worn shoes. He didn't even have a sword or musket.

He gulped down the bile and stepped into the courtyard nevertheless. It was his only choice and he would be damned if he didn't take it.  
He had never been ruled by fear before and wouldn't get started with it now.

He could start a new life now. A new name, a new work. He could finally take all the chances he had never had before, become the man he always wanted to be.  
He had left his old life, his old family, his old home and work behind to start something new.

To the outside he seemed confident as he strode through the courtyard. Nodding every now and then to a soldier that cought his gaze. On the inside his heart threatened to jump out his chest as he knocked on the blue door, that had been described to him a week ago.

"Come in."

He stepped into the room, noticing at first how dark it was and how thick the air. All the windows and curtains were closed, closing out the world outside of the room. Behind a large wooden desk sat a man in his fortys. Letters and other papers were scattered on the table.   
The man looked up from his work, his face hard but his eyes kind.

"You must be the new recruit."

He nodded, closing the door behind him as the Captain gestured to him to do so.

"I only need a few personal details, then you can start." The Captain smiled at him before he stood up. "I'm Captain Duval by the way."

He opened his mouth before closing it fastky again. Almost, he had said the wrong thing.

"Aramis." The lad took the hand and shook it, before taking his seat as the Captain did so too.

Duval started to write something on an empty piece of paper, stopping without looking up again. "Whole name?"

"d'Herblay. Aramis d'Herblay."

At this, the Captains raised a brow. "A spaniard?"

Aramis gulped, fearing that he just has lost his only chance. "My mother was. But I was born and raised in France."

"Don't worry. I'm not judging you. It's just good to know. I believe you speak the language?"

Aramis nodded. "I've learned Spanish just as well as Latin." the Captain seemed surprised, but didn't speak out his thoughts as he kept on writing the facts down.

"Family?"   
At this, Aramis hesitated.   
"No. None."

"Age?"   
"17."

There where some more questions about where had been raised and what abilities he had before the Captain finally led him into the courtyard.

The soldiers were busy training. Some with sword, some with muscets and others hand to hand.

Duval winked one of the soldiers over, introducing Aramis to him. The man missed an ear, and curious as the boy was, it got hard for him to not stare.

"Girard. You will show Aramis around. Practice with him until he understood how things are working here." With this, I the Captain left Aramis and Girard alone.

The earless man didn't seem thrilled by his new task, but he didn't complai either. He wasn't rude to Aramis but not nice either. Soon, Aramis learned that Girard was a man of few words.

"Your room." He explained and opened a screaching door on the second floor. The room was small and the interior sparse, nothing Aramis wasn't used to.

The "Mess." was the next thin Girard showed him. After that, all the other rooms and places Aramis should know about.

It was around noon as a sword was pushed into Aramis hands for the first  time in his life. He had sparred before, of course. Every boy did. But with sticks or brooms. Never before was he allowed to feel the heaviness of metal in his hand nor the comform of a real hilt. He smiled to himself.

"Now try to not be hit." Normally he would have rolled his eyes and snapped a saucy answer to Girard, but he didn't want to risk anything. Instead Aramis started to make careful blows towards his opponent. Another recruit called Francis as he had learned earlier.

He felt confident with the weapon soon, it just felt right. So his movements got faster, his strokes harder and he saw how Francis now had to work too. Aramis thought to have seen a short but admiring smile.   
Somewhere between being surprised by his own skill and just enjoying what he was doing, Aramis got distracted. After a especially hard blow he lost his grip on the sword and the weapon scattered through the mud.   
He was just about to retrieve it as a food was placed on the blade. Girard shook his head.

"Now hand to hand."

Aramis was somehow anxious as they started. He has had a few fist fights in his life, but enough to really have practice in them. Moreover he wasn't sure how much he had to hold back or how hard he was allowed to not hurt his opponent - and new companion.   
However, as a fist collided with his face and he stumbled back, he knew that he could hit harder than he had done before.   
With new vigor he started back in the fight. Throwing fists, wresting his opponent to the ground.   
But a well placed boot there and a tight grip around his wrist here, forced him to surrender as he was secured to the ground by Francis.

Girard didn't seem impressed, not even amused a little bit. He just shook his head, arms folded above his chest. A nod towards another corner of courtyard made Aramis scramble back to his feet.

Girard was already heading towards the target and Aramis had to run to keep up with him.   
The previous fights have left him sweating and  out of breath.

"You know how to load a gun?" Girard asked as he handed him one.

"No." Aramis admitted quietly, expecting something derogatory from Girard, a huff or some harsh words.  
But the soldier didn't seem surprised or angry.

"Look."  
Girard took his time taking the musket apart, showing the new recruit the several pieces of it before putting it back together and loading it.

Then he gave Aramis another weapon, urging him to load it by himself. The recruit gulped, not sure if he was able to do it right after watching how it was done once.  
Nevertheless he was no one to retreat easily, so he tried to remember to several moves and do it just like Girard.  
He needed more time than the seasoned soldier, but in the end he managed to load the musket. A proud smile on his face.

"Now shoot. Llike this." Girard took his arms and positioned him where they belonged, then stepped a little bit back.

Aramis took a deep breath, concentrating on the targets big red circle.  
He squeezed his finger slowly, pulling the trigger. The recoil took him by surprise, sending a short but sharp pain through his arms and shoulder.

But he didn't spend it much attention as he was eager to find out if he hit. Looking at the target he found now hole in the target.

"Again." Girard urgedn, handing him some new ammunition.

He shot, failing again.

"Another one."

He concentrated, pulled the trigger, and... And missed.

"Go on."

Aramis shot until his arms got lame and the sun settled. The men were called to dinner, but he didn't feel hungry, retreating to his room.

It felt as if he had disappointed Girard and the Captain. He HAD disappointed them.  
They gave them this unique, perfect chance. And he didn't even hit a target or was able to win a fist fight against another recruit.

Maybe he was wrong in the army. Maybe he should just take his things and leave. Go back.  
Maybe, all of this had been just a stupid, unrealistic dream. He? A soldier?  
He huffed. How could have he thought that he was made for this?

He was just a regular boy. No hero, no champion.  
Just the son of a Spanish whore and her customer.

He sat on his bed staring at the small bundle he had brought with him. It would be easy to go now.  
He would only need to take the bundle and leave. No one would care. Probably no one would even notice.

He could still go back to his old life. Back to the girl's and women, persuading himself that they needed him there to protect them. Even though he was not able to. He couldn't even shoot.

But then, he remembered something.  
He wasn't René anymore. He was Aramis now. And as he took this name he had decided to change everything. He decided to be brave, to be a soldier, to be hero.  
And no matter if René or Aramis, he had never given up easily before. He wouldn't start now.

....

He stood up before the sun rose. He stole a piece of bread from the kitchen before heading to the courtyard.  
It was still early, he didn't want to wake anyone yet so he started with loading the weapons.  
Again and again and again. Soon, it became a soothing rhythm in which his hands worked.  
Then, as the first men headed towards the mess, he started to practice.

He shot one shot after another, not pausing. His muscles burned, but soon he hit the target. And then he got the right feeling for the weapon.  
He didn't keep feeling it as the musket in his hands, an unusual weight but as his own arms and hands. It belonged to him.  
And with this feeling of comfort and confidence he hit. He hit the centre. One shot after another he hit.

Only as all the muskets were spent he lowered his arms and turned around to make his way towards the mess as well. What stopped him was the crowd that had gathered around him, some applauding, other nodding appreciative. Others looked jealously, some seemed somehow angry.  
Because they knew that what they just had witnessed wasn't the normal outcome of practice.  
It was talent. Born and granted to only a few people.


	12. Coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Savoy, Pre-Series.

The sun was slowly rising, the air was alread dump and hot as Constance made her way towards the market. She sighed as she already felt the sweat running down her body beneath the too many layers of her dress. 

But depsite the heat she kept walking as fast as possible wihtout having to run, she wanted to be at the market before most people were. There was just so much to do today and she didn't have the time to wait in a line to buy her supplies. So Constance hurried through the dirty, still empty streets of Paris, a braided basket hanging over her arm.

She wasn't that far away from the market as she noticed the shouts coming form a tavern just ahead. She gulped and slowed down, not really wanting to walk along there. Brawls and fights in bars weren't suprising in Paris, but she didn't want to get into it. 

As far aways from the door of the taveern as possible, Constance walked along the street - now more aware of her surroundings than before.

The shouts grew louder as she came closer as well as pained moans. Then a scream which shattered her heart. The "No!" was screamed with so much pain and fear that she couldn't jsut keep walking. But she couldn't just rush in there neither.

She breathed in deeply, creeping closer to the door and opening it just an inch to look into the tavern. Due to the very late -  or early - hour it was quite empty. There were only four men and a woman, probably the keeper, left. Three of the men stood around the fourth one, who sat crumpled on the floor, back against a wall, hands over his head to protect it. The woman stood behind the bar, watching the events with pity. 

The three men laughed, kicking the man on the ground in his ribs. Just now Constance recognized them as Red Guards. "Look at you. Weak and cowardly."

As the Red Guards grabbed the mans collar and dragged him to his feet, Constance was able to see his face for the first time.

"Aramis." She gasped and stopped to think about her safety as she ripped open the door and ran towards the group.

"What do you think you're doing?!" She demanded, placing her hands on her hips. 

 

The Guards turned their attention towards the woman, still not letting Aramis' collar go and pressing him against the wall. The one holding him, grinned at Constance. "What will you do to us if not?"  
  
  
"Fortuitously I know the Captain of the Musketeers, Treville, in person - furthermore I am qute good at remembering faces. What do you think would the King say if he heard of Red guards treating a Musketeer like this?"  
  


Her gaze hushed over to Aramis who hadn't said a word in all this time, causing ehr heart to clench. He had become to quiet since this mission that had went wrong. She didn't know much about it besides that every musketeer on this mission had died, everyone except Aramis. 

After his return she hadn't seen him for weeks. Not in the Garrisons courtyard, where she sometimes delivered the repaired uniforms, neither on the market where he liked to flirt with the farmers daughters. Then, a month ago, she had seen him again. Hair and beard unkempt, muscles gone and his eyes empty. There had been no sign of his usual cheekiness, no stupid comment or flirty grin. Just this terrible emptiness.

She had heard from Athos what had happened, as she had met him on the market once. After that, she had visited the Garrison the next day with fresh clothes and a razorblade from her husband. She had froced Aramis to wash, cut his hair and beard and dressed him in fresh things.

Still, he hadn't talked to her. Hadn't even really acknowledged her. A few days later Athos had told her about the ngihtmares and screams, about the fear Aramis couldn't always contain.

 

"He's not a musketeer. Just a coward. A traitor." Another man hissed, spitting on the floor to emphasize.

 

"You've hurt him enough. Just let him go and I won't tell anyone." She warned one more time, stepping closer tot he Red Guards. 

 

The three man laughed, but gladly let go of Aramis who crumpled to the floor and left the tavern. "This isn't over, traitor." The third one hissed, before the door closed again.

 

Constance rushed over to Aramis, kneeling in front of him to assess his condition. A dark bruise was already forming on his cheek and theree would be more under his clothes, she was sure about that.  Gladly, the long scar on his brow hadn't opened again as it still wasn't fully healed after the mission.

 

"Aramis, it's me, Constance." She waited patiently for him to recognize her as he slowly lifted his head, eyes full of fear. She gasped in suprise as his hands shot out and grabbed her wrists, shaking terribly. "Home." He pleaded, eyes wide, chest heaving heavily.

 

She forced a warm smile on her lips and nod. "We will get you home, promise. Can you stand up?" She managed one hand out of his grip and placed it around his waist to help him get back to his feet. It was a wobbly affair, but somehow they managed and left the tavern. Aramis lent heavily against her, worrying Constance how bad his injuries were.

 

On their way back, Aramis stayed silent as ever but Constance had the feeling she could hear his thoughts scream.

"Don't listen to them, Aramis. The Red Guards never respected the Musketeers, eventhough they should. They are idiots. They weren't there, nothing they said is true."  
  
  
"You weren't there neither. You know nothing." He muttered, suprsing Constance that she even got an asnwer.

 

"I don't have to been there to know that you would never desert your comrades. I know you Aramis and I know what a brave and honorable man you are."  
  
At this Aramis decided to remain silent, having the feeling that he has already talked too much.

 

"But tell me, what were you doing in the tavern at a time like this? Alone?"  
  
Silence. BUt now, as all the adrenaline has left her body she smelt the telling sceent of alcohol on him.

Constance sighed. "Don't start drinking, don't you dare. One of you is enough! It won't help you."  
  
  


"I'm sorry." She added, more quietly. 

 

Luckily the Garrison wasn't far away and they managed to stumble into the courtyard together as morning muster began, earning them a few curious glances.

Athos and Porthos hurried over to them, taking Aramis from Constance and placing him between them.

"What happened?" Porthos asked in shock as he took in Aramis' condition. As usual the marksman didn't answer, so Constancee told them what she knew.

 

The tall man sighed, patting Arais' hand slightly. "Let's get you into bed, mon ami."  
  



	13. No time to mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Warnings.
> 
> One of my many takes of how the inseperables first meeting went. For now, it's only Athos' and Aramis' first encounter.

Until now he had only heard stories of this gruesome event. Rumours, that were whispered in the taverns at midnight or gossip, from women on the market. He had never really listened, but at these days it was impossible to not hear of it at all. He hadn’t cared before, too lost in his own dark thoughts and the bottle wine, which could always been found in his hand. 

He had listened a little more to the hushed whispers since Captain Treville had talked to him and recruited him into the regiment of the Musketeers. Not that he really had any strength left to really think or care about this horrifying massacre or the soldiers lost there, but he at least wanted to know the facts. After all it was one of the reasons a drunkard as he was got the chance to become one of the King’s elite guards. Twenty men died, one deserted. The Captain needed new men, fast.

But after hearing all these stories, the facts varying from one to another, he had thought he would know what would await him.   
The truth is, it was worse than what he could imagine. The whole scenery fitted together as the pieces of a puzzle, reflecting all these horrible events even more horrendous than in all those horror-stories that were told to scare children.   
There were only few men in the muddy courtyard, while the rain poured down on them. There faces were empty, angry, sad, tired. Some sparred while others trained with a musket, but no one seemed to be really in it. 

A dark cloud hung over Paris since days. The snow had melted and was now replaced by never stopping rain. So, the garrison seemed dark and lifeless, even though it was around midday. It was too quiet, Athos observed. It should be louder. There were weapons used, there were men sitting around a table eating. But it was almost silent. No one truly spoke, there were only a few hushed tones every now and then. The only sound was the neighing of the horses and the clashing of steel.

On the other end of the courtyard there was a magnificent gate, graved with the fleur-de-lis on it’s sides into the dark wood. It could have been beautiful, wouldn’t it had been for the words written above. 

Repose en paix. Nos camarades, amis et frères. (Rest in peace. Our comrades, friends and brothers.)

He could see dead branches hanging onto the way that lead through the gate, blocking his view from what was behind it.  
As he was awaited by the Captain, there was no time to investigate. Not now.

….

It was in the afternoon as he decided to get to know his new home. He had already been showed his room by one of the other new recruits, a tall, strong and dark skinned man. They hadn’t talked much with each other, but Athos had learned that his name was Porthos and that he had been with the regiment for only two weeks by himself.

After that he had checked the kitchen, the mess, the armoury and the stables. There, his gaze lingered again on the gate and the cemetery that was hidden behind it. 

Slowly, he strode through the rain. The mud splashed against his trousers, colouring them in a dark brown and wetting his feet. He stopped in front of the gate for a moment. Somehow, it felt as if he wasn’t wanted there, as it was something for the more seasoned soldiers. A place for the ones who would find there, beneath all the mud and dirt, a friend. He didn’t know anyone here, so was he even allowed to be there?  
He discarded that thought. A cemetery was a place for everyone. 

So he stepped through the gate and ducked beneath the branches, following the way that was neatly made of stone. He hadn’t to walk far for the first graves to arrive. The names didn’t say him anything, the date of their death had been a while ago and the graves were neat but not decorated. There hadn’t been anyone for them in a while, he guessed. From where he stood now, he could oversee the whole cemetery. It wasn’t that big actually. The walls of the garrison surrounded it, making it seem more sad and constraining than the cemeteries he used to now. A weeping willow had been placed into the centre, it’s branches roofing over half of the cemetery. The closer the graves came to the tree, the newer they seemed. There were flowers on them, flat and soggy from all the rain.  
Leaning against the trunk of the weeping willow, sat a man slumped. Slowly, Athos approached him, taking in the newest of the graves that circled the trunk. He counted them fast and found twenty of them. Swords were in the place were a wooden cross would usually be placed – there hadn’t been time yet to grave the crosses, he guessed. A diversity of colourful flowers were splayed on the fresh graves, the earth still high and not sunken in.

As Athos came closer, he heard soft mumbles of the man, too quiet to understand the words. The man didn’t seem to notice him or ignored him, whatsoever he was very concentrated on the rosary between his fingers and the mumbling that left his lips.  
As Athos stepped onto a branch which snapped way too loud for this silent scenery, the man’s head shot up – pure terror written on his face. His hand went to his side, where the musketeers wore their muskets. But the man gripped into emptiness, as he didn’t wear any weapons. He froze in this movement, staring at Athos with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Athos hastily answered, not moving an inch as he tried to make out who or what the man was. He was unarmed, as he had already noticed, but still wore leather clothes. There wasn’t a pauldron on his way too thin arm and no hat that would hide the shadows beneath his eyes. Even from this distance, Athos could see the cheekbones of the man, standing out on his pale skin as they would cut through it any moment. His hair was shorter than from most of the musketeers, revealing a dark-red scar on his brow. 

He watched the man close his eyes for a brief moment, before he faced him again. The terror in his eyes was gone, replaced by a even more shuddering emptiness.   
Oh, if Athos only knew how close the mans blank expression came to his own.

“Who are you?” The voice was raspy, as if it wasn’t used often. But the question wasn’t spoken with fear or suspicion, but with a tone that suggested apathy.  
Athos stepped closer slowly, taking the start of a conversation as a permission.

“My name is Athos. I’m one of the new recruits.” He explained carefully. 

The man didn’t gave him a name in return but only nodded, his gaze turning back to the cross closest to him. He seemed to be deep in thoughts and as there was silence between the men for a good two minutes, Athos thought about leaving again. He was just about to turn and leave the man to his own troubled mind, as he spoke again.

“Have you ever fought before, Athos?”

He was taken back by the question, but nevertheless answered as he straightened his shoulders. He already guessed what the man was heading for. “Many times - since I was six years old.”

There was a slight twitch of the man’s lips, but there was nothing amusing on it. The heavy weariness in his eyes spoke louder than his facial expressions. 

“Have you ever fought for your – or another ones – life, Athos?”

“No.” He answered truthfully, but didn’t let the man take any from his pride. He knew that he was a good swordsman – it wasn’t important if he has been a soldier before or not. 

“You know before… The Captain would have never taken men into his regiment without experience in soldiering. He had chosen wisely, precisely. But these days, he had lowered his standards. He had to. He needs men, so he’s taking who he can get his hands on. Street fighters, simple soldiers, Nobles who had never been in a real fight…”   
At the last comment the man shot him a despicable look, which Athos chose to ignore as well as the words that were meant to hurt.   
He instead chose to say something else, to lead the conversation into a somehow different direction. Away from himself. 

“I have heard of the incident. Half the regiment was killed.” 

“Slaughtered.” The man corrected with bitterness and fury, his fists clenching around the rosary in his hands. “Some cowards had slaughtered them in their sleep.” 

The fury was short lived. At once all of it seemed to vanish, being replaced by wariness and sorrow – and something else which Athos couldn’t quite get a grip on.

Inwardly, Athos cursed himself for turning the conversation into that direction. He would have to say something soothing and sympathetic, but he had never been good with words. And was even worse with feelings since he had left his home.  
But as it seemed he didn’t need to talk as the man took over once again.

“Sometimes I still hear them. Sometimes I even see them, and not only in my dreams. They seem to follow me.” 

Athos sighed and couldn’t help but to think to his own demons that followed him day and night. He drowned them, each day anew. Drowned his sorrow and his guilt, drowned the sweet poisonous voice that echoed in his head with alcohol. It helped. As long there was enough of the liquid in his system the voices were gone. But that was a method he couldn’t recommend the man.

“You must have knew them well.” Athos guessed, still trying to figure out what the mans place was.

“They were my brothers.” He muttered, eyes closing as grief overpowered him and dreaded to tear his heart apart. 

He was a musketeer then. But how could a musketeer look so weak? Was he sick? And where was his pauldron? Maybe he had retired? He was too young for that.

“I’m … sorry for your loss.” Athos answered quietly, and it came out more like a question than a condolence. Oh, he was really bad at this.

“Are you really sorry? Because they’re buried for not even a day and you are standing here, taking their place, their room, their weapons and horses? Tell me, are you really sorry that you will get a commission? Because, I can promise you, without their deaths someone like you would have never been allowed to take a step in here.” 

The words were hissed, spoken with a deep pain and fury. They stung, but Athos tried to not be too affected by them. This man was suffering and obviously searched for someone to let out his frustration. Athos was man enough to be able to withstand something like this.

“Someone like me?”

“A noble drunkard with no experience. I can see you swaying from where I sit. I can’t believe Treville is replacing them with the likes of you.”

“Does he have a choice?” Athos arched an eyebrow, letting the insulting words wash over him. 

“Obviously not.” The man pushed himself from the muddy ground, his clothes brown and dirty were he had sat on them. The man passed him in order to leave the graveyard, a slight limp in his walk.

“Wait.” Athos watched the man stop in his movements, but he didn’t turn around to face him. “The Captain said I’m supposed to go to his Lieutenant Aramis to be instructed to a trainings group. Do you know where I can find him?”

He heard a loud sigh as the shoulders of the man sagged, as if they were under a way too heavy weight for him to carry.

“You will be in group four. There will be more instructions at morning muster.”  
With that, the man – Aramis – limped into the courtyard.


	14. No time to mourn (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.

“Pierre how many times do I have to tell you that you have to breath before you shoot?”   
He shook his head in annoyance before limping over to the few men practicing with swords and would have preferred to put needles into his eyeballs than watch this misery for another moment.  
“A sword is not a stick you swing around wildly and hope to hit your opponent with it, Porthos. Use not only your strength but also your head, I know you have one.” He sighed, clenching his fists as his gaze drifted to Porthos sparring partner. Most of the time Aramis wondered if god wanted to punish him for surviving. Not only had he to take over most of the training sessions of the herd of new recruits, but then Treville had also picked absolutely unfitting men. Some weren’t skilled enough, some too arrogant, others just weren’t made for the hard labour of soldiering. Others were far too young or far too old. He really didn’t know how he was supposed to make some presentable musketeers out of these men.  
Okay, maybe not all of them were that bad and maybe he exaggerated sometimes – and most of them would surely make fine soldiers or red guards. But that was it. To be a good musketeer it took more – or that was what he had always thought. When he had arrived, as one of the first men of Captain Treville’s regiment in the garrison, he already had years of experience in soldiering, he was fastly forming a strong bond with the men he soon called brothers and had a outstanding skill with a musket. He didn’t want to sound arrogant but he just had the dreading feeling that none of these new men would fulfill ALL requirements to be a musketeer.  
Young Pierre was often too overly excited, too fast with decisions and his actions – he lacked the ability to think things through, before he did something. Marcus, he was fast and had already a few years of experience as a soldier, he truly was an intelligent man – but he was just too small, too thin and weak to be a true challenge for anyone. Sometimes Aramis wondered how the man had survived on the battlefield.  
Porthos, oh he was a brute, full of strength and had the street-intelligence most men lacked. But that was it. He had never ridden before or held a musket. He was good at hand to hand combat, but the skill he had there he lacked in fighting with a sword. When he swung the weapon, it just didn’t look right.  
And then there was this Athos guy. Aramis didn’t like him from the moment he had entered the cemetery. All noble and arrogant, thinking that his good heritage would make him a better man. Probably got the place in the regiment only because of the money of his father. He may was skilled with a sword, thanks to private teachers and things like this, but he just would never would be able to form a true bond with the others. And that was what made the musketeer who they were. They weren’t just comrades, they were brothers. Always had been. Until this faithful mission has changed the whole regiment.

“Your ‘I learned sword fight with a private teacher since I was six and without any real danger’ technique won’t be of any use for you if it comes to a real fight, Athos.” Aramis more hissed than spoke, his dislike for the man openly shown.  
“I’m sure if he truly wanted, Porthos would have killed you after only a minute into the fight. And he truly isn’t a natural when it comes to swords.”   
Athos, not really caring what others thought of him only frowned. He had always been one of the best swordsmen in the village, has been taught by the best of the best and had even won against his teacher in his late years of learning. He wasn’t closed to learning new skills or tips to improve, but what Aramis did was only insulting him. 

“Then what am I supposed to change?” Athos raised an eyebrow, opening his arms as if he challenged Aramis to step closer.  
The lieutenant stared at him with open disdain, but somehow managed to calm down before he spoke. His words now calmer. Not friendly, but not insulting either.   
“Fight dirty. On the battlefield no one cares about a perfect technique and rules. Use your left fist while you spar with your right hand, kick your opponent. Do whatever it takes, just don’t die.”  
Athos frowned as he considered the advice. He never had fought ‘dirty’ before, but he saw the truth in Aramis’ words. His opponents would also fight with every part of their body, so why should he not? There was just one problem, he really didn’t know how to fight like this.  
On the other hand, he had Porthos as an opponent – and if someone knew how to fight dirty, it was Porthos.  
Athos truly considered to thank Aramis for the advice, but the lieutenant had already limped away leaving the recruits to train for their own.  
“He can be nice, if he wants to be.” Porthos suddenly said as Athos turned his attention back to him, ready for another sparring math.   
“He doesn’t seem to really want it.” Athos commented, not meaning it in a bad way. He himself wasn’t the most sympathetic person to be around.  
“Has some big demons foll’ing ‘im.” Porthos muttered.  
….  
The door closed with a quit ‘klick’, closing out the sounds of metal and soldiers, leaving the room in an unpleasant silence.  
He had the urge to move, to speak, but years of soldiering had trained him to not do so. So Aramis just stood there, getting more and more annoyed with each silent second by as he watched the Captain reading some papers on the desk, ignoring him. Treville liked to do this. Calling him into his office just to ignore him for several minutes before he started talking about the matter.  
Finally, after several long minutes, Treville placed the paper back on the desk and stared at Aramis with a blank look.   
“I’ve heard some of the recruits. Talking about your methods of training, your harsh words. You’re not quite popular among them.”  
He shrugged, not wanting to answer and not really knowing how.   
He didn’t need to as Treville went on, leaning forward on his desk as his icy blue eyes seemed to see right into his soul.

“I want you to train them to become a regiment. Musketeers. Brothers you can trust and who trust each other with their lives. If they hate you, how can you be sure that they will watch your back?”  
Aramis bit his tongue, rage started to boil in him. This wasn’t his fault. It was theirs and it was Treville’s for recruiting these men.  
“May I speek freely, Captain?” He asked, barely holding back his rage. The Captain nodded.  
“They are not suitable for this regiment. They either lack the skill, the experience, the brain or the heart.”  
At this, Treville cocked his eyebrow in interest before he slowly pushed himself up.   
“So, you were born with the skills and knowledge you have now? You was born with the years of experience?”  
“No. Of course not. But-“  
“But someone gave you the opportunity to learn. Some taught you all these things.”  
Aramis straightened his shoulders, stepping closer to the desk.  
“Captain, by all respect, but the things these men have still to learn should be learned with the infantry.”  
Treville now stepped around the desk, facing his lieutenant directly. “Why should they not learn it from the best?”  
At this, Aramis frowned, shaking his head. “Captain, I’m truly not the right man to teach recruits how to hold a sword.” Or how to be a musketeer, he added in his mind but let the words unspoken. Nevertheless Treville seemed to have heard them.  
“I only want the best men in this regiments and for this it needs the best teachers. In the infantry, most good men don’t get the chance they would deserve. But now that the Kings has relieved the regiment of most of the duties for a while and with some excellent men left, I got the chance to take talented men and make them to good musketeers. For that, I need help and I chose you, Aramis. I chose you as a teacher, because I know that you has what it takes. Because, before… you know… you’ve already taught the new recruits. And you did your job well. Tomas, Rene, Marcel – they got their commission just because of you. They had been just as inexperienced as some of the new recruits are now, but through your help they learned what they needed to learn. And I know you can do it again, you just have to want it.”  
Silence followed. The Captain watched his soldier carefully, taking in the change of his emotions. The fury was gone, replaced by something he couldn’t put his finger on yet.   
“What if I don’t want it, Captain?”  
Treville wasn’t surprised. He knew Aramis didn’t cope well with the loss of his brothers and the immediate replacement of them.   
“Then I will have to make it an order that you teach them just as you’ve taught the recruits before.”  
“No.” Aramis answered warily, leaving Treville stunned. An experienced soldier as Aramis rarely spoke back to his Captain. “I don’t mean just this teaching-thing. I mean everything. I don’t want this anymore, Captain. I don’t want to be your lieutenant. I have failed as such in Savoy and I don’t want this rank ever again. I don’t want to get to know these new recruits. I don’t want them to watch my back, because I… I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want any of this.”

“You want to resign your commission?” Treville asked slowly, his head spinning as he tried to understand the words. Aramis sighed before he nodded slowly, uncertain, warily – tiredly.   
At this, the Captain pointed at the chair in front of his desk before he sat down in his own. Aramis did as asked, watching the man with empty eyes.  
“It’s been only a month since the burial, Aramis. I understand your sorrow and your fury. I really do, believe me. But give it time. You’re still healing yourself. Give the wounds more time to heal, physically and mentally.”

Looking down at his fingers, Aramis shook his head. “I can’t. I – I haven’t even held a weapon since…. I can’t sleep, I can’t fight, I can’t teach – what use am I?”  
“I can only repeat myself: Give it time. Don’t make decisions you will later regret. Let us make a deal, okay? Wait three months. If you still want to go then, I won’t stop you. But if you want to stay, I would be happier.”  
Aramis thought about the offer. Three months could be a long time. On the other hand, deep down, he already had his doubts with his decision. He had no other place to go, nothing else he liked to do and was good at. He didn’t want to go back to the church, and he had no place elsewhere in this world. So he accepted.   
Three more months. Time to find a new place in this world, before he would leave.  
And a little bit he hoped he would change his opinion, would stay. If he could, he didn’t know.


	15. Assassin (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I really don't know where I've got this idea from.  
> I'm a little bit excited over this one and would love to hear what you think!  
> I'm alaways grateful for your reviews. 
> 
> Warnings: Graphic Description of Violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU.  
> Aramis has never found his way to his wealthy father, the church or the Musketeers.  
> Growing up in poverty, he learned how to protect himself and to what would be the best - for him. He lived by himself since an early age, looking after himself, only caring for himself.
> 
> Soon he was caught in a life of crime and violence, finding his way into the rows of Assassins. And he was the best of them.
> 
> Unfortuanelty, a mission went wrong. Being caught by the Musketeers Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan he tries to save himself from the Bastille.

He woke to a feeling of dizziness. It felt as something heavy lied onto him, taking the breath from him and causing his muscles and bones to arche. Slowly, he opened his eyes – glad to find the place he was not too bright. It was a room, he found out fast. Some dim light shone through the window, the full moon was seen right behind the glass. A fire crackled in another corner of the room, enlighten it further.  
Then, as his mind was awake enough to comprehend what was going on, a lightning of panic stroke through his heart. He didn’t know this room and couldn’t remember how he came there or who it could belong. He tried to sit up, gasping as a fresh wave of pain spread through his ribs. Sitting up really wasn’t a good idea. But, believing the restricting feeling around his chest and wrists, he wouldn’t even be able to sit up if he wanted too.  
He let is gaze wander through the strange room again, now drifting further from the window and fire towards the door and then – on the opposite of the bed he laid in sat three men.  
His muddled mind needed a few moments, but then recognition hit him. A wave of image and memories rushed through his head.  
The mission. Something went wrong. He had to run, but there were just too many of them. Where had they come from? He had to fight. Took some of them down, until he was overwhelmed. A tall, bulky man had knocked him out – explaining the pounding in his head.  
This same man, all broad shoulders, dark skin and grim face, sat in a chair watching him instantly. Beside him leaned another man against the wall, arms crossed in front of chest, his gaze seemed somewhat annoyed. He was lean and tall, but still so young. Too young to be Musketeer, he would have guessed. But somehow, the boy had gotten a pauldron on his shoulder. And then there was the third soldier, now standing right in front of the end of his bed. Icy blue eyes stared him down as if they tried to read his soul.  
However, it took more than two men with angry eyes and a boy too scare him.  
Knowing that he soon will be questioned he went over the mission one last time, remembering what he could say or do and what not. Given the circumstances, he decided to play his usual role, which should give him enough time to find a way to escape.  
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to play the innocent man – after all he had been found with the weapon in his hand running off. A mistake which would not happen again. Usually he was no man to easily make mistakes. He planned his missions into the littlest detail, he was precise with everything he did, and he was successful – everytime. It was the first and last time he would have allowed himself such a devasting failure.  
As he had already guessed, the Musketeers didn’t wait long with their questioning.  
The one with the icy blue eyes stepped around the bed, now looking right down at him. Aramis cursed the ropes holding him down, not liking that the men were able to look down at him like this.  
“I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers. These are my comrades, Porthos“ the man with the icy blue eyes, Athos, pointed at the dark skinned man in the chair before moving his hand towards the boy, “and d’Artagnan. So, will you tell us who the target was and who had ordered you?” Athos face stayed stoic while his voice seemed almost bored.  
Deciding, to keep to his role as best as he could, Aramis started rambling in spanish. The words too fast for anyone to understand who didn’t speak the language fluently. It didn’t make sense what he said, but that wasn’t important.  
The three men exchanged a short, sceptical glance.  
“We’ve heard you talk in your dream. We know you speak French.” The boy explained, seeming somewhat amused.  
Aramis held back the urge to close his eyes in frustration, shrugging. “It was worth a try, wasn’t it?” A wide smile spread along his face, perplexing his captors even more.  
“However, I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m just a innocent merchant who apparently was in the wrong place to the wrong time.”  
“A merchant with an arquebus, two pistols, a dagger, two knifes hidden in his shoes and breeches and a rapier?” Athos, who obviously was the leader of the three as he took over the conversation naturally, pointed at a table by the fire where his loved weapons laid.  
“I’m trading weapons.” Aramis explained, not losing the easy smile on his lips.  
Athos, annoyed by the games, sighed and strode over to his two comrades exchanging a short and hushed conversation.

It was the boy who then took the place by Aramis’ side. “You know just as well as we do, that you’re not innocent neither that you’re a merchant. Just let us do this swift and no one will be hurt. Just answer our questions.”  
Aramis huffed at the impaled threat. He had survived worse. “I can’t answer questions I don’t know the answer to.”  
“Fine.” The boy shrugged, “then we will start with simple once. What’s your name?”

That was easy. “René d’Herblay.” As expected the name told them nothing. He would be stupid to reveal his aliases to the Musketeers and with that reveal himself.  
“And where are you from, Monsieur d’Herblay?”  
Aramis grin widened at the false politeness of the boy. He liked him, somehow. A shame that he became one of these annoying Musketeers, he could have been good company otherwise.  
“Oh I was born and raised in this beautiful country called France.”

“And why the spanish? The name?”  
“Do you really want to know the story of my life?” He arched an brow and as the boy waved his hand in a gesture to start talking, combined with a slight nod, Aramis’ grin almost ripped his lips apart. This was amusing.  
“My mother, oh she was a beautiful woman – you should have seen her! My mother, her name was Rosalie – Rosalie d’Herblay. So my mother she was born and raised in spain. Maybe not entirely raised. She and her parents – my grandparents – moved to France as she was a little girl. Maybe not so little. If I remember correctly she was around-“  
He stopped midsentence as a flying fist cought him in the face, causing his head to fly to his side. True surprise shone in his eyes as he turned his head back to the Boy d’Artagnan. “Well, that was unexpected.” On the other hand he should have known that such a reaction would come – he had provoked it after all.  
Aramis heard a quiet huff and as he looked over to the other two Musketeers, this Porthos had a small smile playing on his face – obviously proud of the boy and his methods.

“I always thought that Musketeers would be honorable men and would not attack a man who’s defenceless.”  
“I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t seen anything, have you Athos?” Porthos grinned as he looked over to their leader, who’s lip quirked up a little bit. “Me neither.”

“Now, that you seem so eager to talk, would you mind to tell us something over your target?”  
Aramis acted as if he would think about deeply, biting his lips and rolling his eyes up in his head, before shaking his head determined.  
“No, I think I will not.”  
The boy shook his head. “You know, this was your last chance before we let Porthos free.” Said man cracked his knuckles, grinning dangerously.  
“I mean, we caught you right in the act. You will be thrown into the Bastille either way. But if you talk you would first protect yourself from pain and secondly may have a chance to not be put to death. What reason should you have to keep this secret?”

“Fun?” Aramis smiled innocently, before taking notice of Porthos finally standing up.  
“Prepare him.” The tall man muttered as he shrugged out of his doublet. 

With that Athos drew a pistol aiming it right at Aramis in warning as d’Artagnan first opened the ropes around his chest and then around his wrists. He thought about fighting back. He certainly could take out the Boy even before he knew what was happening. But then there was still Porthos, heavily armed and Athos and the pistol that was already aimed at him. He would dead before he could make a real move.  
So, without a real choice, he let himself being manhandled into the only chair in the room where he was bound again, his hands on the arms of the chair and his ankles on the legs.  
Additionally a roped around his chest and neck were added, preventing any kind of movement. 

Porthos, who seemed to be ready for his task, walked towards him. “Last chance.” He offered, but giving Aramis no chance to answer as his smile was beat from his face.


	16. Assassin (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've promised some of you a second part, and here it is.  
> There surely will come some more too!
> 
> As always I am thankful for your lovely reviews and enjoyed reading all of them. Keep going!

The beating was short and harsh. But as much strength this brute Porthos might had, it had been far from the worst mistreatments Aramis had experienced in his not so long life.   
He was aware that the man had probably been a little more careful than usually and had only concentrated on his face. His already damaged ribs had been spared. This alone indicated that the Musketeers not only wanted to hurt hum, but keep him alive and coherent enough to answer questions.  
From the first minutes with them, they had already said that they wanted whoever was behind this – not only him, the assassin, the executive power but the one with enough wealth, power and hate to order such an act of treason.   
Of course, he wouldn’t tell them. All these promises, that it would spare him some pain, were nothing but lies. Event though the mission hadn’t been his idea – he had been the one with the musket. He would hang – or worse – no matter what happened. He would not give away his client.   
Should he ever be able to get out of this sticky situation, he would not risk to have his reputation destroyed until then. Moreover his client still had the half of the money he owed Aramis. One half before, the other after the mission – this was the business, and he would have been stupid to give up such an enormous sum of gold.

After having beating his face and probably breaking Aramis’ nose, Porthos had left to wherever the other two had gone too – leaving their prisoner alone.  
Aramis grinned to himself and would he have had a mirror he could see the blood running from his mouth and lips onto his teeth, colouring them as red as the rest of his face.  
Still only bound to the chair and without someone in the room with him, it wouldn’t be hard to get free of his vessels. But, as he didn’t know how far the Musketeers were gone, he still had to be careful and as quiet as possible. Would he have known that they were entirely gone, he just could have broken the chair. Actually, he had played with this thought longer than he should have. His weapons still laid in the room. Even if they found him before he had left the room, he could defend himself. On the other side – they may wanted him alive, but they surely wouldn’t hesitate to kill him once he became a threat to any of them. Without enough pistols, his chances in such a small room were minimized. 

So he retreated to the silent escape. The ropes weren’t that tight as before on the bed, so he managed to free his feet from his boots. With some effort and bloody ankles, he managed to wriggled free of the ropes there. His hands weren’t that easily freed. But now able to half walk in an awkward angle, the chair still tied to his arms and chest, he tiptoed to the table with his weapons. He managed to take a hold onto his dagger, but not without pounding the chair against the table with a light knock. He cursed under his breath, hoping that no one had heard it. He worked fast, cutting the ropes around his wrists, slipping the dagger in the back of his breeches and taking his beautifully graved pistols. He wished to be able to take everything with him, but time was precious. Unfortunately they had taken his weapon belt, and hadn’t left it with his other stuff – so he had to stuff the pistols also in the sides of his breeches. He shot a last longing look to his discarded boots by the other end of the room, but the sound of fast footsteps and angry voices alerted him.   
He made quick work to climb onto the bed, where the lonely window of the room was above. Looking out, he gulped. They were in the third store of a house. Too deep to just jump out. Put that wasn’t his first concern.   
It were the Musketeers gathered in the Courtyard, at least ten men, working and sparring, eating or chatting. Behind him the sound of feet on wood grew louder, growing to an annoying reminder that he had to think fast.   
He could not jump out. So he had to fight. He checked his pistols – only to find them not loaded and nothing to do so in the room. How could he have been so careless to not check them first? So he had to retreat to his dagger, knifes and rapier.   
Would they have been simple soldiers or mercenaries he could have taken them out with it easily. Throwing both knifes and then the dagger. But Musketeers were faster and more skilled. His mind rushed through the options he had.  
Maybe he could take out two of them with the knifes – but he was sure he wouldn’t be able to draw his dagger before the third one would kill him.   
Then, as he heard there voices loud and clear – his eyes focused onto two things beside the door, right beneath the ceiling.   
Maybe it was stupid, maybe it would not work. But it was his only chance.  
In mere seconds he jumped and held onto the candle holder on the left side of the door. Swinging his legs up and twisting them around the holder on the other side, he now planked right above the doorframe as long as he tensed every muscle in his body. His bruised ribs send waves of the pain of thousand knives through his sides, making breathing almost impossible for him.

Not a second later, the door swung open and the three Musketeers stormed in, swords drawn.  
Aramis held his breath, but in this moment he was sure they would be able to hear his heart pounding in his chest. Athos, the last who had entered the room, still stood in the door, the rapier pointing to the floor as he took in ropes and boots that Aramis had left.  
Said man was now sweating and trembling with the burning pain that rushed through his muscles like fire, while he was surprised that the Musketeers hadn’t seen him yet. They were so concentrated on his boots and the open window, now discussing furiously how he could have escaped with a courtyard full of Musketeers.   
Finally, Athos joined his comrades by the window, leaving the door open for Aramis who swung down as gracefully as a cat, his naked feet not even making a sound as they hit the floor. Nevertheless the movement had caught the Musketeer’s eyes, causing them to turn around and lift their half-forgotten weapons.   
However, Aramis only heard a distant curse as he had started running the moment his feet had found solid ground. He knew they were following him and probably could shoot him any moment, he hoped that he had calculated rightly – so that the Musketeers would try not to kill him as long as he wasn’t threatening anyone.   
He half ran – half jumped down the stairs, turning around the next corner that came sharply, following another step of stairs that led him into what seemed to be the kitchen. The boy was right on his heels, followed by Athos and Porthos.  
There were only two ways out. One way was blocked by the Musketeers rushing into the room and in the other stood an old man, a big black kettle in his hand and staring right at him with eyes blown wide in surprise.  
One last look over Aramis’ shoulder to the Musketeers, who had now pointed their rapiers towards him and slowly walking over him, gave him the last nudge he needed. He sprinted towards the old cook, surprising him by the sudden action and sending the kettle of soup to the ground – the content spilling around them and burning his naked feet. Aramis cursed, but didn’t dare to stop moving.  
It was Athos’ voice and the threat of a pistol aimed at him, as well as four more Musketeers hurrying from the courtyard towards him, which forced him to his next step.  
He liked to think of himself as a man with at least some honour and dignity, despite his type or work. But now, when it was his life and freedom that depended on it, he threw away all the honour pulled out his dagger, holding it onto the old man’s throat. His other arm was keeping the mans arms in check while he turned sideways, so he had the doorframe in his back and both groups of Musketeers to his left and right.   
Aramis didn’t miss how some of them gasped in shock and others cursed.   
“Let him go.” D’Artagnan demanded and took a step forwards, his rapier still pointed towards Aramis.  
“No.” Aramis protested and tightened his grip on the cook – noticing, how fearless the man seemed despite the dire situation he was in.

“He’s not even armed and no threat to you.” Porthos added, joining d’Artagnan.  
“Don’t come closer.” Aramis tried to keep his voice as strong and determined as possible, but even knew he had no chance against seven Musketeers, so he couldn’t completely hide the desperation coming through. But weren’t desperate the most dangerous ones?

“You can’t run away and neither can you fight us all.” Athos, ignoring Aramis’ command, also stepped forward and nodded towards Aramis burned feet. Only adrenaline kept the criminal from giving in to the terrible pain he had to be in.   
Not really having a plan for this, Aramis drew the dagger closer to the cook’s throat, almost cutting skin. “Leave.” He ordered, voice harsh.

“And then what? Even if we would let you leave this courtyard, do you think you could make it far with the whole regiment searching for you?”  
If he was true, Aramis thought so. He had enough experience in hiding and making himself invisible. He just needed to get them from his heels for a minute. 

“I will let him go.” He then, suddenly and to the surprise of most, announced.  
Naturally, it wouldn’t be that easy for the Musketeers. “I will let him go once you let me out of this place and I am sure that no one has followed me.” 

“How can we be sure that you won’t kill him instead?” Porthos asked, brows arched in dislike. He would have loved to just shoot this lunatic, but Athos wanted him for questions.

“There is no reason for me to kill this man.” And Aramis meant his words. He may was an assassin, but he was not a man who murdered without reason. Once he was safe the cook would be no use to him but it would also be no use for him to kill him.  
“So if you don’t want your precious cook to die NOW, you will all step back.”  
The Musketeers shared unsure glances before lingering on Athos who then nodded. Porthos and d’Artagnan protested. They couldn’t let this criminal just leave!

Careful, to not turn his back to any of the Musketeers, Aramis slowly made his way towards the gate on the other side of the courtyard, his dagger still pressed against the silent cook’s throat.   
They weren’t far away from the gate that promised freedom, as suddenly, a sharp pain spread in his thigh. He yelled out, before he could make out the reason for the sudden pain, before his eyes found a knife stuck in his leg. The cook grinned as he twisted out of his grip.

“I may be old, but I’m still a soldier.” He mumbled, before limping towards the Musketeers that now rushed towards Aramis.  
But he wouldn’t give up so easily and drew the two knifes he had hidden in his breeches.   
He awkwardly stood on his left leg, trying to take as much pressure from the injured one as possible as he stared at the Musketeers. 

In his peripheral sight he noticed one of the Musketeers move with his rapier raised. He flicked his wrist, sending one of his blades right into the man’s right arm, forcing him to let his weapon fall.  
He grinned at his still true aim.   
To the soldiers, he gave a gruesome image. Bruised face and red teeth, a grin that reminded of the sneer of a wolf, his breeches soaked and bloody on one point and burned feet sinking into the muddy ground beneath them. He had only one knife left, with his dagger still stuck in his own flesh. He knew better than to just pull it out.  
But even with only this one small knife, he was deadly.

Suddenly, there were three men rushing at him. He managed to throw his knife at the first one, hitting the man’s shoulder as planned. He beat another one into the face and pushed him back, but the third one was fast and strong and due to his injuries it wasn’t even a real fight as he pushed him to the ground.  
He thrashed around and fought as hard as possible, but alone and without any weapons he had no chance against the several Musketeers that bound his hands behind his back and pulled him back to his feet. With the adrenaline slowly running out of his system, he suddenly felt even weaker than before, the pain in his leg, feet and ribs more prominent than ever.  
“I think he’s passing out.” D’Artagnan commanded and Aramis wanted to snap something back to the boy, but then the stars that had danced in front of his eyes went completely black and his muscles went slack.


	17. Bad dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a prisoner was - unfortunately for Aramis and his brothers - a common tactic in times of war.  
> After Aramis had come into the hands of the spanish, the others have to save him and deal with the aftermath of his imprisonment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Description of torture
> 
>  
> 
> This one really took a lot of time fo rme to write, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Don't worry, I haven't abondened the other storys I have started here.

Porthos fingers tightened around the arm they were holding once a group of soldiers appeared on the other side of the field. It had been around twenty men, just as many as they themselves took with them.   
It was weird. Standing with so few men on this enormous field, where just days ago a battle took place with thousands of soldiers. There was so much empty space between them and to the sides, where trees surrounded the field.

“I count three prisoners.” Athos murmured, his eyes roaming over the enemies troop. Porthos followed his gaze, searching for the same thing – the same person – as his brother. Unfortunately the spanish soldiers were still too far away to be able to identify anyone correctly. The only thing they were able to see were three men being dragged over the muddy ground, obviously unable to make the walk by themselves. Porthos hand trembled with fury as he shot a glance to their own prisoners of war.

 

They all had made their way to the prisoner exchange by themselves. Of course, none of the spanish prisoners had come away unhurt, but none of them was severely injured.

“What if he isn’t with them?” Porthos suddenly asked in the tensed silence as both troops walked towards each other. 

Athos didn’t answer. Maybe because he didn’t want to face this option. Didn’t want to think that Aramis might not was a prisoner, might have died on the battlefield or some distance away – his body not recognizable or hadn’t been found. Or maybe, Athos didn’t want to speak out loud what this would mean for them. That they would have to live without him. Their brother. That it had been their fault, after they had dragged him out of the safety of Douai and onto the battlefield.

His death would be their fault.

No. Porthos shook his head in determination. Aramis wouldn’t have survived that all these years just to die like this. They may all would find their end on the battlefield, but they would be surrounded by their brothers then and would be found after the battle and would get a decent burial. And as Aramis body has never been found, their was only one option left.

 

Once again Porthos strained his eyes to recognize the faces of the prisoners. He was no able to see the faces of the men approaching. Two of the prisoners didn’t seem familiar to him, but as he faced the third his heart stopped. It was him. It was Aramis.

His eyes hushed over to Athos, who despite his almost stoic expression, breathed out some of the humid air.

Concentrated on his lost brother as he was, Porthos almost missed the prisoner exchange. Suddenly someone loosened his grip on their prisoners arm and urged the Spaniard forward. He noticed how the other two prisoners also walked forward and towards their landsmen.

On the other side of the field it didn’t went so easily. After nudging their prisoners for sometime, the spanish understood that the men weren’t able to make the walk on their own. Annoyed, six men put their weapons aside to drag the French soldiers, Aramis one of them, through the mud and towards the empty middle between the two opposing groups.

There, they let the three men fall and hurried back into their rows. Immediately Athos, Porthos and four more French soldiers dropped their own weapons and hurried towards their comrades.

It was as they reached their men, as the seasoned soldiers gasped in unison at the ex-prisoners conditions. Porthos growled, cursing the Spaniards as he knelt beside Aramis and placed his hand on his brothers cheek. The marksman eyes fluttered open, they seemed glassy and unfocused as they stared through Porthos, who almost gagged as he took in the face of his brother. It wasn’t the swollen eye or the nasty gash on his forehead, not even the broken nose that made his stomach turn. Aramis’ lips had ben sewn together. The light thread visible against his red and parched lips.

“Oh, mon ami, what did they do to you?” He asked with sadness and fury in his voice before slinging one of his friends arms around his shoulder. Athos did the same on the other side to help their brother back to the safety of their camp.

 

Porthos hadn’t much eyes for the other two men who had been with Aramis, but even with a short glance over to them, he noticed that they had been treated similar to the marksman. 

It was quiete a walk towards their camp, which had to feel like an eternity for Aramis, who groaned in pain as much as his closed lips each time his body was moved too much.

“You’re safe now, brother. We’re back soon.” Porthos assured, as Aramis once again winced in agony. Beside the obvious wounds there was no way to know what other injuries Aramis might have. They couldn’t take the time and look at him back on the field – too high the risk of being attacked. So there was no other way than to bring them back to the relative safety of the camp before looking after their wounds.

In wise foreboding three beds at the infirmary had already been cleaned for the prisoners.   
Carefully Porthos and Athos guided their brother towards it and laid him on the top – earning another groan by disturbing some unknown injuries.

The medics hurried to their sides immediately.

“Can you cut the … lips open before you check him over?” Athos asked, just as disgusted by the act as Porthos was. It was gruesome to see their usually so talkative friend so silent and disturbed. His eyes were blown wide, almost frantic and no one was sure if he really knew where he was.

The medic nodded and grabbed a small knife. “Please hold him down and especially his head in place. If he moves…” He left the words unspoken, as everyone could imagine what could happen should Aramis be too far away or distressed and fight them. So Porthos held his arms down while Athos grabbed his head in both of his hands.

This earned them a wild look from Aramis, who immediately strained against the hold. He obviously tried to say something or maybe even tried to scream – they couldn’t be sure as all they heard was a muffled sound.  
“It’s alright. We’re here to help you, mon ami.” Porthos said calmly, praying that Aramis would hear him through his panic.

It didn’t seem like it, as he kept on trying to fight against them. Fortunately, Porthos and Athos had a strong grip and Aramis was obviously weakened by the days of imprisonment.   
The medic made fast work, cutting the threads and leaving only a few small bloody spots on his friends lips.

Once the thread was gone, Aramis gasped for air – way too fast for the liking of his friends. “Hey, do you hear us? You have to calm down, ‘Mis. The doctor here has to look at you to find out where you are hurt. Maybe you can tell us what they did?” Athos asked as loosened his grip on his friends head carefully.

Aramis, who finally calmed down, looked at his brother with wide eyes. Sweat dripped down his brow, and mixed with the blood on his face.

“What hurts you, mon ami?” Porthos asked again as his brother didn’t seem to have understood the question.

Porthos placed a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder, careful of injuries he may not know of.

Aramis brow furrowed in pain as his lips parted just to close again. He tried again, his voice rough from thirst and not having talked for some while.

"Hands." He breathed, eyes clenched shut. If it was in pain or fear, Porthos couldn't tell. His eyes flickered down to his friends hands, heart seizing at the look of them. Most of the fingers were crooked into an awkward angle and on one hand all of its nails missed.

His eyes found the gentle ones of the medic, searching for an answer. The kind man shrugged unsure. "I will do my best. I am not sure how bad the bones are broken..."

For Aramis' sake he didn't spoke out the next words. If the bones were broken too worse and couldn't be splinted again, he would lose the use of the fingers. As a soldier, and especially as a marksman, this could be his end of the career.

 

"Any other injuries we don't know of?" Athos then asked, as the medic already took a look on the crooked fingers.

 

"I'm not sure." Aramis admitted tiredly. "Everything hurts."

Porthos gulped. It was not often that either of them admitted pain, which meant that Aramis had to be in grave pain to admit to it so easily.

"The doctor will take good care of you." Porthos squeezed his friend's shoulder before filling another cup of water and holding it to his lips. Aramis gulped it down greedily, causing Porthos to frown in worry.

"How long didn't you drink? Or eat?"

Aramis glassy eyes looked at him in confusing as he obviously tried to remember something.

"How long was I gone?"

"Four days."

Aramis nod and closed his eyes again in exhaustion. "Then probably for two days. I cannot be sure though."

Porthos sighed as he once again took in the form of his brother. He was dirty and dust and blood covered his skin. He smelled, Porthos had to admit. After sweat and urine.

Though it wasn't uncommon after an imprisonment, it made his blood boil. While they had treated their own prisoners with at least some dignity. In exchange these Spanish pricks had done everything possible to break their brothers.

Athos, who had watched the exchange calmly while he leaned against the wall, pushed himself away from it just to place his hand where Porthos had been before.

 

The doctor had announced to now splint the bones - a painful procedure.

 

"Wait a moment." Athos commented sternly before he squeezed Aramis shoulder. "Are you still awake, Mis?" He asked gently and smiled slightly as the man in question nodded slightly.

 

"I don't like doing it know, but I need you to answer some question before the doctor treats you."

Again , Aramis nodded. He knew that the treatment wouldn't be easy on him and that he probably won't be coherent enough to answer questions afterwards. As the Captain he understood Athos need for answers.

"Did you overhear some kind of valuable information?"

Aramis shook his head, no. They had talked rarely in his presence. And when they had asked him questions. Through the thick walls of his cell he wasn't able to hear anything outside of it.

"No. I'm sorry."

Athos squeezed his shoulder again. "It's okay, it's not your fault. Only one more question." Athos hesitated. He didn't want to even think about the possibility that Aramis had broken under the pressure, but after what he had seen even a strong man as Aramis couldn't have stood against the enemies pressure for ever. It would have been just a natural reaction to talk.

"Did you give them any kind of information?"

At that Aramis opened his eyes once again, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Of course not."

A feeling of pride warmed Athos chest, as his lips twitched into something like a smile. "You're a good man, Aramis." Afterwards, Athos nodded to the medic who then set the first finger, causing Aramis to grunt in pain.

Porthos flinched and put his hand around his friends wrist to keep it in place and in the hope to offer at least some kind of comfort. Fastly and precise, the medic set the seven broken fingers, splinting them afterwards. Aramis was soaked in sweat by now, grunts of pain leaving his lips and eyes clenched shut tightly.

"It's over." Athos assured as he stroke the sweated strains of hair out of the marksmans strained face.

As Aramis was currently not able to give them any more information about his state of health as the pain still had a strong hold onto his body, the medic started to unbutton his shirt and ordered Porthos to take of his shoes.

The tasks done, they found a few dark bruises on Aramis' torso, but thankfully nothing had been broken. Still it would be painful to move for some while.

His feet were a different story to tell. They guessed that it had been too tight closed manacles that had rubbed his flesh raw and open, causing blood to soak into the leather of the boots.

 

The view caused Athos to frown.

"Aramis, are you sure you don't have any other serious injuries?"

The Captain earned himself a confused and slightly angry look from Porthos. Wasn't this bad enough?

"You were barely conscious as we got you. And this, even though it does look bad, are all injuries that wouldn't have taken such a toll on you." Athos explained.

It took Porthos a few moments to comprehend what had been said, before he slowly nod in approval. Aramis has had far worth and had been better off then now.

Aramis frowned as he remembered something.

"We had food and water the first days." He mumbled, eyes still too heavy to open them. His words slurred into each other, as exhaustion took over him.

"Didn't feel so good afterwards."

Porthos wanted to ask what he meant with "not so good" but didn't even get a chance as Aramis' body relaxed as he fell into a unrestful sleep.  
……..  
Porthos sighed as he put the towel into a basket, where the dirty and used blankets or bandages laid in.

He glanced towards his sleeping, and now clean again, friend before he walked out of the tent. Fresh, cool air brushed against his dampened skin. The sun that shone so unforgiving these days had set hours ago.  
He walked through the camp towards the tent of the Captain, not even bothering to announce himself as he strode into it.

It wasn't a surprise to see Athos hovering over his table, a map spread over it and a glass of wine placed on one edge of it.

The Captain didn't look up as Porthos sit down on the lonely chair of the tent, feet placed on the table. He grabbed the Captains vacated wine an gulped down the content of the glass, before he studied his friend.  
"He will live." He said uselessly. No one had ever doubted that. Aramis may was exhausted and hurt but not gravely wounded as to rouse fear for his life.  
Nevertheless, Athos nodded his thanks. "I'm wondering what kind of poison they gave him. Did the medic say something? Will it have lasting effects on him?"  
Porthos shrugged as he stared at the empty bottom of the wine glass. "He says, he can't say for sure as long as he doesn't know what he had taken. But the doctor believed that Aramis will heal. Maybe some headaches or sickness, but nothing too worse."  
Athos seemed comforted by this. Aramis would live and would be fine. Maybe not now and maybe not today, but in a few weeks everything would be back to normal.  
……..  
He watched with horror as Porthos ripped off his pauldron, tossing it into the small mound of earth that had been arranged there only a few hours ago. Sobs wracked the burly man as if he were a small boy again, crying over the death of his mother.   
As Porthos stood up on wobbly legs and walked away, Aramis wanted to run after him, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. He tried with all his strength, still his feet seemed to be shackled to the ground.

Then, over the roaring thunder and pouring rain, he screamed. He pleaded Porthos to stop, to stay. But his voice drowned in the sounds of the storm. And Porthos was gone.   
Porthos had deserted his duty, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces. The life he had fought for so hard, left behind. But why?  
Aramis didn’t know how or when, but suddenly he had moved. Moved in front of the fresh grave. And his eyes ran over the letters graved into the cross a thousand times.

“No.” He breathed, but the words got stuck in his throat, his stomach rambling just like the thunder above, his knees giving in as he sank into the mud. “Athos.” He gasped, every last bit of air leaving his burning lungs as his hands gripped into the wet earth. “No.”   
He didn’t feel the tears running down his face as they mixed with the rain, didn’t feel how his clothes had been soaked through. All he did feel was pain and sorrow. And confusion. How? When? Where had he been when it happened?

“You’ve left them behind.” The voice silenced all the other sounds around them, the hate in it cutting through Aramis’ heart.   
“D’Artagnan?” Aramis turned around to see the lad standing in the pouring rain, wet hair clinging to his face.   
Then, without a warning, the fury on the boys face vanished and his body collapsed to the ground. The rain had stopped just to be replaced by snow. The ground beneath d’Artagnan’s body was coloured in red. The houses vanished and trees captured him between them.  
Aramis turned around, panic raising in his chest as more and more bodies appeared on the white ground. Soon, there was no white left. Nothing but red and death surrounded him.

His heart hammered so fast that it hurt, the blood pulsating in his ears so loud that only the cry of ravens topped it. 

…

He woke with a gasp, eyes wide and confused. But then there was this tight, warm and gentle touch on his shoulder – grounding him. A low voice, comforting him. He forced his eyes to obey as he focused on Porthos’s lips. Then, the blurry voice slowly became words with meaning.

“Hey, you with us again?”

He was somewhat confused, where else should he have been? He nodded and then it struck him like a lighting. The grave. “Where’s Athos?” He asked a way too fearful as he sat up abruptly, surprising Porthos with the sudden movement. The bulky man frowned in worry.

In his tent. He’s fine.” He assured as he saw the panicked gaze in his brothers eyes.

“It was just a bad dream.” Porthos then explained, taking some of Aramis’ confusion.

The marksman nodded before lying back down. “It’s just like back in the cell. I think it was something in the food.” Aramis remembered. The feeling of sickness after the meager meal he had gotten, then the dreams that had followed. Dreams that came if he was asleep or awake. Memories of Savoy, the death of his brother, his mother being slaughtered because of his deeds, Isabelle, Anne and his son… back in the cell he had thought he had thought he had lost them all. There had been no way to distinguish reality from hallucination, as the one mixed with the other. 

All this time he was just able to sit there and watch them die in the most cruelest ways his sick mind could have imagined. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t speak. He just could watch how his loved ones died – because of him.

“You mean it’s some kind of poison?”

Aramis nodded, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of images rushed through his head. His mother, torn into a thousand pieces by wolves. Anne, forced to throw their son into a raging river. Aramis didn’t notice how he took Porthos’ hand and squeezed it tightly, searching for something to ground him. But the bulky man didn’t miss it, squeezing his friend’s hand back as he shot him a pitiful look.

“Whatever is haunting you, mon ami. It’s over now. You are back with us now, and everything will be okay, yes? Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Aramis nod as he squeezed the hand tighter, while he prayed that Porthos words would be true. Now, back at the camp, he knew that they had only played with his mind, hoping to break him. And he would lie if he would say that they hadn’t almost achieved that.  
But only almost.

As always, his brothers had been there in the crucial moment to save him just in time.


End file.
